SHAKESPEARE'S   CHRISTMAS 

AND   OTHER   STORIES 


WHIRLED  DOWN  THE  LENGTH  OF  THE  ROOM  Page  47 


SHAKESPEARE'S 
CHRISTMAS 

AND  OTHER   STORIES 


BY 

"Q" 

(A.  T.  QUILLER-COUCH) 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  AND  CO. 

91  AND  93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1904 
By  A.  T.  QOILLER-COUCH 


All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1903 
By  LONGMANS,  GREEN  &  Co. 


All  rights  reserved 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS     ....  i 

YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR!  ....         65 

CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES    .         .         .115 

FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 157 

THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN  .  .  .  207 
RAIN  OF  DOLLARS  ...  .  .  243 
THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR  .  .  .291 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

WHIRLED  DOWN  THE  LENGTH  OF  THE  ROOM    Frontispiece 

LANDLORD   OKE   GAVE  A  FLOURISH  WITH  HIS  ^J^ 

CHALK  AND  WROTE              .             ,             ...  80 

THE  LITTLE    OFFICER  HAD    TURNED  WHITE    AS  A 

SHEET    .  .  .  .  .  .  .113 

TlS  TOO  LATE,  MY  MASTER  !  TRECARREL  CALLED 

CHEERFULLY  DOWN  THE  TRAP  .         .         .  148 

IN  THE  NAME  OF  H.  M.  KlNG  GEORGE  III, 

I  CHARGE  YOU  TO  COME  ALONG  QUIET         „  196 

GET  DOWN  FROM  YOUR  HORSE,  SlR  .         .         .  254 

UNBAR  THE  DOOR  !  SHE  COMMANDED          .         .  286 

SHE  CAUGHT  UP  HER  GUITAR  AND  CHIMED  IN     .  323 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

"And  moreover,  at  this  Fair  there  is  at  all  times  to  be  seen 
Jugglings,  Cheats,  Games,  Plays,  Fools,  Apes,  Knaves,  and 
Rogues,  and  that  of  every  kind.  .  .  .  Now,  as  I  said,  the  way 
to  the  Celestial  City  lies  just  through  this  town,  where  this  lusty 
Fair  is  kept;  and  he  that  will  go  to  the  City,  and  yet  not  go  through 
this  Town,  must  needs  go  out  of  the  World  "  —  BuNYAN. 


AT  the  theatre  in  Shoreditch,  on  Christmas  Eve, 
1598,  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  servants  presented 
a  new  comedy.  Never  had  the  Burbages  played 
to  such  a  house.  It  cheered  every  speech — good, 
bad,  or  indifferent.  To  be  sure,  some  of  the 
dramatis  persona; — Prince  Hal  and  FalstafF,  Bar- 
dolph  and  Mistress  Quickly — were  old  friends; 
but  this  alone  would  not  account  for  such  a  wel- 
come. A  cutpurse  in  the  twopenny  gallery  who 
had  been  paid  to  lead  the  applause  gave  up  toil- 
ing in  the  wake  of  it,  and  leaned  back  with  a 
puzzled  grin. 

"Bravo,  master!"  said  he  to  his  left-hand  neigh- 
bour, a  burly,  red-faced  countryman  well  past 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

middle  age,  whose  laughter  kept  the  bench  rock- 
ing. "But  have  a  care,  lest  they  mistake  you 
for  the  author!" 

"The  author  ?  Ho-ho!" but  here  he  broke 

off  to  leap  to  his  feet  and  lead  another  round  of 
applause.  "The  author?"  he  repeated,  drop- 
ping back  and  glancing  an  eye  sidelong  from 
under  his  handkerchief  while  he  mopped  his 
brow.  "You  shoot  better  than  you  know,  my 
friend:  the  bolt  grazes.  But  a  miss,  they  say, 
is  as  good  as  a  mile." 

The  cutpurse  kept  his  furtive  grin,  but  was  evi- 
dently mystified.  A  while  before  it  had  been  the 
countryman  who  showed  signs  of  bewilderment. 
Until  the  drawing  of  the  curtains  he  had  fidgeted 
nervously,  then,  as  now,  mopping  his  forehead  in 
despite  of  the  raw  December  air.  The  first  shouts 
of  applause  had  seemed  to  astonish  as  well  as 
delight  him.  When,  for  example,  a  player  stepped 
forward  and  flung  an  arm  impressively  towards 
heaven  while  he  recited  — 

When  we  mean  to  build, 
We  first  survey  the  plot,  then  draw  the  model  — 

and  so  paused  with  a  smile,  his  voice  drowned 
in  thunder  from  every  side  of  the  house,  our 
friend  had  rubbed  his  eyes  and  gazed  around 
in  amiable  protest,  as  who  should  say,  "Come, 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

come,  .  .  .  but  let  us  discriminate!"  By-and-by, 
however,  as  the  indifferent  applause  grew  warmer, 
he  warmed  with  it.  At  the  entrance  of  Fal- 
staff  he  let  out  a  bellowing  laugh  worthy  of 
Olympian  Jove,  and  from  that  moment  led  the 
house.  The  fops  on  the  sixpenny  stools  began  to 
mimic,  the  pit  and  lower  gallery  to  crane  necks  for 
a  sight  of  their  fugleman;  a  few  serious  playgoers 
called  to  have  him  pitched  out;  but  the  mass  of 
the  audience  backed  him  with  shouts  of  encourage- 
ment. Some  wag  hailed  him  as  "  Burbage's  Land- 
lord," and  apparently  there  was  meaning,  if  not 
merit,  in  the  jest.  Without  understanding  it  he 
played  up  to  it  royally,  leaning  forward  for  each 
tally-ho!  and  afterwards  waving  his  hat  as  a  hunts- 
man laying  on  his  hounds. 

The  pace  of  the  performance  (it  had  begun 
at  one  o'clock)  dragged  sensibly  with  all  this, 
and  midway  in  Act  IV.,  as  the  edge  of  a  grey 
river-fog  overlapped  and  settled  gradually  upon 
the  well  of  the  unroofed  theatre,  voices  began 
to  cough  and  call  for  lanterns.  Two  lackeys 
ran  with  a  dozen.  Some  they  hung  from  the 
balcony  at  the  back,  others  they  disposed  along 
both  sides  of  the  stage,  in  front  of  the  sixpenny 
stools,  the  audience  all  the  while  chaffing  them 
by  their  Christian  names  and  affectionately  pelt- 

[3] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

ing  them  with  nuts.  Still  the  fog  gathered,  until 
the  lantern-rays  criss-crossed  the  stage  in  separate 
shafts,  and  among  them  the  actors  moved  through 
Act  V.  in  a  luminous  haze,  their  figures  looming 
large,  their  voices  muffled  and  incredibly  remote. 

An  idle  apprentice,  seated  on  the  right  of  the 
cutpurse,  began  for  a  game  to  stop  and  unstop 
his  ears.  This  gave  the  cutpurse  an  opportunity 
to  search  his  pockets.  Cantat  vacuus:  the  ap- 
prentice felt  him  at  it  and  went  on  with  his  game. 
Whenever  he  stopped  his  ears  the  steaming 
breath  of  the  players  reminded  him  of  the  painted 
figures  he  had  seen  carried  in  my  Lord  Mayor's 
Show,  with  labels  issuing  from  their  mouths. 

He  had  stopped  his  ears  during  the  scene  of 
King  Henry's  reconciliation  with  Chief  Justice 
Gascoigne,  and  unstopped  them  eagerly  again 
when  his  old  friends  reappeared  —  FalstafF  and 
Bardolph  and  Pistol,  all  agog  and  hurrying,  hot- 
foot, boot-and-saddle,  to  salute  the  rising  sun 
of  favour.  "Welcome  these  pleasant  days!" 
He  stamped  and  clapped,  following  his  neigh- 
bours' lead,  and  also  because  his  feet  and  hands 
were  cold. 

Eh  ?  What  was  the  matter  ?  Surely  the  fog 
had  taken  hold  of  the  rogues!  What  was  hap- 
pening to  Mistress  Quickly  and  Doll  Tearsheet  ? 

[4] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

Poor  souls,  they  were  but  children:  they  had 
meant  no  harm.  For  certain  this  plaguy  fog 
was  infecting  the  play;  and  yet,  for  all  the  fog, 
the  play  was  a  play  no  longer,  but  of  a  sudden 
had  become  savagely  real.  Why  was  this  man 
turning  on  his  puppets  and  rending  them  ?  The 
worst  was,  they  bled  —  not  sawdust,  but  real 
blood. 

The  apprentice  cracked  a  nut  and  peeled  it 
meditatively,  with  a  glance  along  the  bench.  The 
countryman  still  fugled;  the  cutpurse  cackled, 
with  lips  drawn  back  like  a  wolf's,  showing  his 
yellow  teeth. 

"Hist,  thou  silly  knave!"  said  the  apprentice. 
"Canst  not  see  'tis  a  tragedy?" 

The  rascal  peered  at  him  for  a  moment,  burst 
out  laughing,  and  nudged  the  countryman. 

"Hi,  master!  Breeds  your  common  at  home 
any  such  goose  as  this,  that  cannot  tell  tickling 
from  roasting  ?" 

The  apprentice  cracked  another  nut.  "Give  it 
time,"  he  answered.  "I  said  a  tragedy.  Yours, 
if  you  will,  my  friend;  bis  too,  may  be" — with 
a  long  and  curious  stare  at  the  countryman. 


[5] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 


II 

"My  tongue  is  weary:  when  my  legs  are  too,  I  will  bid 
you  good-night:  and  so  kneel  down  before  you;  but  indeed  to 
pray  for  the 


Play,  epilogue,  dance,  all  were  over;  the  curtains 
drawn,  the  lanterns  hidden  behind  them.  The 
cutpurse  had  slipped  away,  and  the  countryman 
and  apprentice  found  themselves  side  by  side 
waiting  while  the  gallery  dissolved  its  crowd 
into  the  fog. 

"A  brisk  fellow,"  remarked  the  one,  nodding 
at  the  vacant  seat  as  he  stowed  away  his  hand- 
kerchief. "  But  why  should  he  guess  me  a  rustic  ?" 

"The  fellow  has  no  discernment,"  the  appren- 
tice answered  dryly.  "He  even  took  the  play  for 
a  merry  one." 

The  countryman  peered  forward  into  the  young- 
old  face  silhouetted  against  the  glow  which,  cast 
upward  and  over  the  curtain-rod  across  the  stage, 
but  faintly  reached  the  gallery. 

"I  love  wit,  Sir,  wherever  I  meet  it.  For  a 
pint  of  sack  you  shall  prove  me  this  play  a  sad 
one,  and  choose  your  tavern!" 

"I  thank  you,  but  had  liefer  begin  and  discuss 
the  epilogue:  and  the  epilogue  is  'Who's  to  pay  ?" 

[6] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

"A  gentleman  of  Warwickshire,  Master  What- 
d'ye-lack — will  that  content  you  ?  A  gentleman 
of  Warwickshire,  with  a  coat-of-arms,  or  the  Col- 
lege's promise — which,  I  take  it,  amounts  to  the 
same  thing."  The  countryman  puffed  his  cheeks. 

"So-so?"     The  apprentice  chuckled. 

"When  we  mean  to  build 
We  first  survey  the  plot,  then  search  our  pockets. 

How  goes  it  ?     Either  so,  or  to  that  effect." 

"The  devil!"  The  countryman,  who  had  been 
fumbling  in  his  breek  pockets,  drew  forth  two 
hands  blankly,  spreading  empty  fingers. 

"That  was  your  neighbour,  Sir:  a  brisk  fel- 
low, as  you  were  clever  enough  to  detect,  albeit 
unserviceably  late.  I  wish  we  had  made  acquaint- 
ance sooner:  'twould  have  given  me  liberty  to 
warn  you." 

"It  had  been  a  Christian's  merest  duty." 
"La,  la,  master!  In  London  the  sneaking 
of  a  purse  is  no  such  rarity  that  a  poor  'prentice 
pays  twopence  to  gape  at  it.  I  paid  to  see  the 
play,  Sir,  and  fought  hard  for  my  seat.  Before  my 
master  gave  over  beating  me,  in  fear  of  my  inches 
and  his  wife  (who  has  a  liking  for  me),  he  taught 
me  to  husband  my  time.  For  your  purse,  the 
back  of  my  head  had  eyes  enough  to  tell  me 

[7] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

what  befalls  when  a  lean  dog  finds  himself  along- 
side a  bone." 

He  seated  himself  on  the  bench,  unstrapped 
a  shoe,  slipped  two  fingers  beneath  his  stocking, 
and  drew  forth  a  silver  piece.  "If  a  gentleman 
of  Warwickshire  will  be  beholden  to  a  poor  ap- 
prentice of  Cheapside?" 

"Put  it  up,  boy;  put  it  up!  I  need  not  your 
money,  good  lad :  but  I  like  the  spirit  of  that  offer, 
and  to  meet  it  will  enlarge  my  promise.  A  pint 
of  sack,  did  I  say  ?  You  shall  sup  with  me 
to-night,  and  of  the  best,  or  I  am  a  Dutchman. 
We  will  go  see  the  town  together,  the  roaring, 
gallant  town.  I  will  make  you  free  of  great  com- 
pany: you  shall  hear  the  talk  of  gods!  Lord, 
how  a  man  rusts  in  the  country! — for,  I  will 
confess  it  to  you,  lad,  the  rogue  hit  the  mark:  the 
country  is  my  home." 

"  I  cannot  think  how  he  guessed  it." 

"Nor  I.  And  yet  he  was  wrong,  too:  for  that 
cannot  be  called  home  where  a  man  is  never  at 
his  ease.  I  had  passed  your  years,  lad,  before 
ever  I  saw  London;  and  ever  since,  when  my 
boots  have  been  deepest  in  Midland  clay,  I  have 
heard  her  bells  summon  me,  clear  as  ever  they 
called  to  Whittington,  'London,  thou  art  of 
townes  a  per  se.'  Nay,  almost  on  that  first  pil- 

[8] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

grimage  I  came  to  her  as  a  son.  Urbem  quam 
die  tint  Romam — I  was  no  such  clodpate  as  that 
rustic  of  Virgil's.  I  came  expecting  all  things, 
and  of  none  did  she  disappoint  me.  Give  me  the 
capital  before  all!  'Tis  only  there  a  man  measures 
himself  with  men." 

"And  cutpurses?"  the  apprentice  interjected. 

"Good  and  bad,  rough  and  smooth,"  the  coun- 
tryman assented,  with  a  large  and  catholic  smile. 
"Tis  no  question  of  degrees,  my  friend,  but  of 
kind.  I  begin  to  think  that,  dwelling  in  London, 
you  have  not  made  her  acquaintance.  But  you 
shall.  As  a  father,  lad, — for  I  like  you,  —  I  will 
open  your  eyes  and  teach  your  inheritance. 
What  say  you  to  the  Bankside,  for  example  ?" 

"The  Bankside  —  hem!  —  and  as  a  father!" 
scoffed  the  youth,  but  his  eyes  glistened.  He  was 
wise  beyond  his  opportunities,  and  knew  all 
about  the  Bankside,  albeit  he  had  never  walked 
through  that  quarter  but  in  daylight,  wondering 
at  the  histories  behind  its  house-fronts. 

"As  a  father,  I  said;  and  evil  be  to  him  who 
evil  thinks." 

"I  can  tell  you  of  one  who  will  think  evil;  and 
that  is  my  master.  I  can  tell  you  of  another; 
and  that  will  be  the  sheriff,  when  I  am  haled  be- 
fore him." 

[9] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

"You  said  just  now — or  my  hearing  played 
a  trick — that  your  mistress  had  a  liking  for  you." 

"And  you  said,  'Evil  be  to  him  that  evil  thinks.' 
She  hath  a  double  chin,  and  owns  to  fifty-five." 

"What,  chins!" 

"Years,  years,  master.  Like  a  grandmother 
she  dotes  on  me  and  looks  after  my  morals. 

Nathless  when  you  talk  of  Bankside "  The 

apprentice  hesitated:  in  the  dusk  his  shrewd 
young  eyes  glistened.  "Say  that  I  risk  it?" 
He  hesitated  again. 

"Lads  were  not  so  cautious  in  my  young  days. 
I  pay  the  shot,  I  tell  you  —  a  gentleman  of  War- 
wickshire and  known  to  the  College  of  Arms." 

"It  standeth  on  Paul's  Wharf  and  handy  for 
the  ferry  to  Bankside:  but  the  College  closes  early 
on  Christmas  Eve,  and  the  Heralds  be  all  at  holi- 
day. An  you  think  of  pawning  your  coat-of- 
arms  with  them  to  raise  the  wind,  never  say  that 
I  let  you  take  that  long  way  round  without 
warning." 

"Leave  the  cost  to  me,  once  more!"  The 
countryman  gazed  down  into  the  well  of  the  the- 
atre as  if  seeking  an  acquaintance  among  the 
figures  below.  "  But  what  are  they  doing  ?  What 
a  plague  means  this  hammering  ?  A  man  can- 
not hear  himself  speak  for  it." 

[10] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

"Tis  the  play." 

"The  play?" 

"The  true  play  —  the  play  you  applauded:  and 
writ  by  the  same  Will  Shakespeare,  they  tell 
me — some  share  of  it  at  least.  Cometh  he  not, 
by  the  way,  from  your  part  of  the  world  ?" 

The  countryman's  eyes  glistened  in  their  turn: 
almost  in  the  dusk  they  appeared  to  shine  with 
tears. 

"Ay,  I  knew  him,  down  in  Warwickshire: 
a  good  lad  he  was,  though  his  mother  wept  over 
him  for  a  wild  one.  Hast  ever  seen  a  hen  when 
her  duckling  takes  to  water  ?  So  it  is  with  woman 
when,  haply,  she  has  hatched  out  genius." 

The  apprentice  slapped  his  leg.  "I  could  have 
sworn  it!" 

"Hey?" 

"Nay,  question  me  not,  master,  for  I  cannot 
bring  it  to  words.  You  tell  me  that  you  knew 
him:  and  I — on  the  instant  I  clapped  eyes  on 
you  it  seemed  that  somehow  you  were  part  of  his 
world  and  somehow  had  belonged  to  him.  Nearer 
I  cannot  get,  unless  you  tell  me  more." 

"I  knew  him:  to  be  sure,  down  in  Warwick- 
shire: but  he  has  gone  somedel  beyond  my  ken, 
living  in  London,  you  see." 

"He  goes  beyond  any  man's  kenning:  he  that 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

has  taught  us  to  ken  the  world  with  new  eyes. 
I  tell  you,  master,"  —  the  apprentice  stretched 
out  a  hand,  —  "I  go  seeking  him  like  one  seeking 
a  father  who  has  begotten  him  into  a  new  world, 
seeking  him  with  eyes  derived  from  him.  Tell 
me " 

But  the  countryman  was  leaning  over  the  gallery- 
rail  and  scanning  the  pit  again.  He  seemed  a 
trifle  bored  by  a  conversation  if  not  of  less,  then 
certainly  of  other,  wit  than  he  had  bargained  for. 
Somebody  had  drawn  the  curtains  back  from  the 
stage,  where  the  two  lackeys  who  had  decked 
the  balcony  with  lanterns  were  busy  now  with 
crowbars,  levering  its  wooden  supports  from  their 
sockets. 

"Sure,"  said  he,  musing,  "they  don't  lift  and 
pack  away  the  stage  every  night,  do  they  ?  Or 
is  this  some  new  law  to  harass  players?"  He 
brought  his  attention  back  to  the  apprentice  with 
an  effort.  "If  you  feel  that  way  towards  him, 
lad,"  he  answered,  "why  not  accost  him?  He 
walks  London  streets;  and  he  has,  if  I  remember, 
a  courteous,  easy  manner." 

"If  the  man  and  his  secret  were  one!  But  they 
are  not,  and  there  lies  the  fear — that  by  rinding 
one  I  shall  miss  the  other  and  recover  it  never. 
I  cannot  dare  either  risk:  I  want  them  both. 

[12] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

You  saw,  this  afternoon,  how,  when  the  secret  came 
within  grasp,  the  man  slipped  away;  how,  having 
taught  us  to  know  Falstaff  as  a  foot  its  old  shoe, 
he  left  us  wondering  on  a  sudden  why  we  laughed ! 
And  yet  'twas  not  sudden,  but  bred  in  the  play 
from  the  beginning;  no,  nor  cruel,  but  merely 
right:  only  he  had  persuaded  us  to  forget  it." 

The  countryman  put  up  a  hand  to  hide  a  yawn : 
and  the  yawn  ended  in  a  slow  chuckle. 

"Eh  ?  that  rogue  Falstaff  was  served  out  hand- 
somely: though,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  paid  no  great 
heed  to  the  last  scene,  my  midriff  being  sore  with 
laughing." 

The  apprentice  sighed. 

"But  what  is  happening  below?"  the  other 
went  on  impatiently.  "Are  they  taking  the  whole 
theatre  to  pieces  ?" 

"That  is  part  of  the  play." 

"A  whole  regiment  of  workmen!" 

"And  no  stage-army,  neither.  Yet  they  come 
into  the  play — not  the  play  you  saw  without 
understanding,  but  the  play  you  understood 
without  seeing.  They  call  it  The  Phoenix.  Be 
seated,  master,  while  I  unfold  the  plot:  this  ham- 
mering deafens  me.  The  Burbages,  you  must 
know " 

"I  knew  old  James,  the  father.     He  brought 

[13] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

me  down  a  company  of  players  to  our  town  the 
year  I  was  High  Bailiff;  the  first  that  ever  played 
in  our  Guildhall.  Though  a  countryman,  I  have 
loved  the  arts  —  even  to  the  length  of  losing  much 
money  by  them.  A  boon  fellow,  old  James! 
and  yet  dignified  as  any  alderman.  He  died  — 
let  me  see — was  it  two  year  agone  ?  The  news 
kept  me  sad  for  a  week." 

"A  good  player,  too," — the  apprentice  nodded, 
—  "though  not  a  patch  upon  his  son  Richard. 
Cuthbert  will  serve,  in  ripe  sententious  parts  that 
need  gravity  and  a  good  memory  for  the  lines. 
But  Richard  bears  the  bell  of  the  Burbages. 
Well,  Sir,  old  James  being  dead,  and  suddenly, 
and  (as  you  say)  these  two  years  come  February, 
his  sons  must  go  suing  to  the  ground  landlord, 
the  theatre  being  leased  upon  their  dad's  life. 
You  follow  me  ? " 

The  countryman  nodded  in  his  turn. 

"Very  well.  The  landlord,  being  a  skinflint, 
was  willing  to  renew  the  lease,  but  must  raise 
the  rent.  If  they  refuse  to  pay  it,  the  playhouse 
fell  to  him.  You  may  fancy  how  the  Burbages 
called  gods  and  men  to  witness.  Being  acquainted 
with  players,  you  must  know  how  little  they  enjoy 
affliction  until  the  whole  town  shares  it.  Never 
so  rang  Jerusalem  with  all  the  woes  of  Jeremy  as 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

did  City  and  suburb,  —  from  north  beyond  Bish- 
opsgate  to  south  along  the  river,  with  the  cursings 
of  this  landlord,  who  —  to  cap  the  humour  of  it  — 
is  a  precisian,  and  never  goes  near  a  playhouse. 
Nevertheless,  he  patched  up  a  truce  for  two  years 
ending  to-night,  raising  the  rent  a  little,  but  not 
to  the  stretch  of  his  demands.  To-morrow — or, 
rather,  the  day  after,  since  to-morrow  is  Christ- 
mas— the  word  is  pay  or  quit.  But  in  yielding 
this  he  yielded  our  friends  the  counterstroke. 
They  have  bought  a  plot  across  the  water,  in 
the  Clink  Liberty:  and  to-morrow,  should  he 
pass  this  way  to  church,  no  theatre  will  be  here 
for  him  to  smack  his  Puritan  lips  over.  But  for 
this  hammering  and  the  deep  slush  outside  you 
might  even  now  hear  the  rumbling  of  wagons; 
for  wagons  there  be,  a  dozen  of  them,  ready  to 
cart  the  Muses  over  the  bridge  before  midnight. 
'Tis  the  proper  vehicle  of  Thespis.  See  those 
dozen  stout  rascals  lifting  the  proscenium " 

The  countryman  smote  his  great  hands  together, 
flung  back  his  head,  and  let  his  lungs  open  in  shout 
after  shout  of  laughter. 

"But,  master " 

"Oh — oh — oh!  Hold  my  sides,  lad,  or  I  start 
a  rib.  .  .  .  Nay,  if  you  keep  st-staring  at  me  with 
that  s-sol-ol-ol-emn  face.  Don't — oh,  don't!" 

[15] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

"Now  I  know,"  murmured  the  apprentice,  "what 
kind  of  jest  goes  down  in  the  country :  and,  by'r 
Lady,  it  goes  deep!" 

But  an  instant  later  the  man  had  heaved  him- 
self upon  his  feet;  his  eyes  expanded  from  their 
creases  into  great  O's;  his  whole  body  towered 
and  distended  itself  in  gigantic  indignation. 
"The  villain!  The  nipcheese  curmudgeonly  vil- 
lain! And  we  tarry  here,  talking,  while  such 
things  are  done  in  England!  A  Nabal,  I  say. 
Give  me  a  hammer!"  He  heaved  up  an  enor- 
mous thigh  and  bestrode  the  gallery-rail. 

"Have  a  care,  master:   the  rail " 

"A  hammer!  Below  there.  A  hammer!"  He 
leaned  over,  bellowing.  The  gang  of  workmen 
lifting  the  proscenium  stared  up  open-mouthed 
into  the  foggy  gloom — a  ring  of  ghostly  faces  up- 
turned in  a  luminous  haze. 

Already  the  man's  legs  dangled  over  the  void. 
Twelve,  fifteen  feet  perhaps,  beneath  him  pro- 
jected a  lower  gallery,  empty  but  for  three  tiers 
of  disordered  benches.  Plumb  as  a  gannet  he 
dropped,  and  an  eloquent  crash  of  timber  reported 
his  arrival  below.  The  apprentice,  craning  over, 
saw  him  regain  his  feet,  scramble  over  the  second 
rail,  and  vanish.  Followed  an  instant's  silence, 
a  dull  thud,  a  cry  from  the  workmen  in  the  area. 
[16] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

The  apprentice  ran  for  the  gallery  stairs  and  leapt 
down  them,  three  steps  at  a  time. 

It  took  him,  maybe,  forty  seconds  to  reach  the 
area.  There  already,  stripped  to  the  shirt,  in  a 
whirl  of  dust  and  voices,  stood  his  friend  waving 
a  hammer  and  shouting  down  the  loudest.  The 
man  was  possessed,  transformed,  a  Boanerges; 
his  hammer,  a  hammer  of  Thor!  He  had  caught 
it  from  the  hand  of  a  douce,  sober-looking  man 
in  a  plum-coloured  doublet,  who  stood  watching 
but  taking  no  active  share  in  the  work. 

"By  your  leave,  Sir!" 

"With  or  without  my  leave,  good  Sir,  since  you 
are  determined  to  have  it,"  said  the  quiet  man, 
surrendering  the  hammer. 

The  countryman  snatched  and  thrust  it  between 
his  knees  while  he  stripped.  Then,  having  spat 
on  both  hands,  he  grasped  the  hammer  and  tried 
its  poise.  :  'Tis  odd,  now,"  said  he,  as  if  upon 
an  afterthought,  staring  down  on  the  quiet  man, 
"but  methinks  I  know  your  voice  ?" 

"Marry  and  there's  justice  in  that,"  the  quiet 
man  answered;  "for  'tis  the  ghost  of  one  you 
drowned  erewhile." 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

in 

"Tom!  What,  Tom!  Where  be  the  others? 
I  tell  thee,  Tom,  there  have  been  doings  .  .  ." 

"•Is  that  Dick  Burbage  ?"  A  frail,  thin  windle- 
straw  of  a  man  came  coughing  across  the  foggy 
courtyard  with  a  stable-lantern,  holding  it  high. 
Its  rays  wavered  on  his  own  face,  which  was  young 
but  extraordinarily  haggard,  and  on  the  piles  of 
timber  between  and  over  which  he  picked  his 
way — timbers  heaped  pell-mell  in  the  slush  of 
the  yard  or  stacked  against  the  boundary  wall, 
some  daubed  with  paint,  others  gilded  wholly  or 
in  part,  and  twinkling  as  the  lantern  swung. 
"Dick  Burbage  already?  Has  it  miscarried, 
then?" 

"Miscarried  ?  What  in  the  world  was  there 
to  miscarry?  I  tell  thee,  Tom — but  where  be 
the  others  ? " 

The  frail  man  jerked  a  thumb  at  the  darkness 
behind  his  shoulder.  "Hark  to  them,  back  yon- 
der, stacking  the  beams!  Where  should  they  be? 
and  what  doing  but  at  work  like  galley-slaves, 
by  the  pace  you  have  kept  us  going  ?  Look 
around.  I  tell  you  from  the  first  'twas  busy-all 
to  get  the  yard  clear  between  the  wagons'  coming, 
and  at  the  fifth  load  we  gave  it  up.  My  shirt 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

clings  like  a  dish-clout;  a  chill  on  this  will  be 
the  death  o'  me.  What  a  plague!  How  many 
scoundrels  did  you  hire,  that  they  take  a  house  to 
pieces  and  cart  it  across  Thames  faster  than  we 
can  unload  it  ?" 

"That's  the  kernel  of  the  story,  lad.  I  hired 
the  two-score  rogues  agreed  on,  neither  more  nor 
less:  but  one  descended  out  of  heaven  and  raised 
the  number  to  twelve-score.  Ten-score  extra, 
as  I  am  a  sinner;  and  yet  but  one  man,  for  I 
counted  him.  His  name,  he  told  me,  was  Legion/' 

"Dick,"  said  the  other  sadly,  "when  a  sober 
man  gives  way  to  drinking — I  don't  blame  you: 
and  your  pocket  will  be  the  loser  more  than  all  the 
rest  if  you've  boggled  to-night's  work;  but  poor 
Cuthbert  will  take  it  to  heart." 

"There  was  a  man,  I  tell  you— 

"Tut,  tut,  pull  yourself  together  and  run  back 
across  bridge.  Or  let  me  go:  take  my  arm  now, 
before  the  others  see  you.  You  shall  tell  me  on 
the  way  what's  wrong  at  Shoreditch." 

"There  is  naught  wrong  with  Shoreditch,  forby 
that  it  has  lost  a  theatre:  and  I  am  not  drunk, 
Tom  Nashe — no,  not  by  one-tenth  as  drunk  as 
I  deserve  to  be,  seeing  that  the  house  is  down, 
every  stick  of  it,  and  the  bells  scarce  yet  tolling 
midnight.  'Twas  all  this  man,  I  tell  you!" 

[19] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

"  Down  ?  The  Theatre  down  ?  Oh,  go  back, 
Dick  Burbage!" 

"Level  with  the  ground,  I  tell  you — his  site  a 
habitation  for  the  satyr.  Cecidit,  cecidit  Baby- 
lon ilia  magnal  and  the  last  remains  of  it,  more  by 
token,  following  close  on  my  heels  in  six  wagons. 
Hist,  then,  my  Thomas,  my  Didymus,  my  doubt- 
ing one! — Canst  not  hear  the  rumble  of  their 
wheels?  and  —  and — oh,  good  Lord!"  Burbage 
caught  his  friend  by  the  arm  and  leaned  against 
him  heavily.  "He's  there,  and  following!" 

The  wagons  came  rolling  over  the  cobbles  of 
the  Clink  along  the  roadway  outside  the  high 
boundary-wall  of  the  yard:  and  as  they  came, 
clear  above  their  rumble  and  the  slow  clatter  of 
hoofs  a  voice  like  a  trumpet  declaimed  into  the 
night — 

"Above  all  ryvers  thy  Ryver  hath  renowne, 

Whose  beryall  streamys,  pleasaunt  and  preclare, 

Under  thy  lusty  ivallys  renneth  downe, 

Where  many  a  swan  doth  swymme  with  wyngis  fair, 

Where  many  a  barge  doth  sail  and  row  with  are 

We  had  done  better — a  murrain  on  their  cobbles! 
— we  had  done  better,  lad,  to  step  around  by  Paul's 
Wharf  and  take  boat.  .  .  .  This  jolting  ill  agrees 
with  a  man  of  my  weight.  .  .  . 

Where  many  a  large  doth  sail  aund  row  with  are  — 
[20] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

Gr-r-r!  Did  I  not  warn  thee  beware,  master 
wagoner,  of  the  kerbstones  at  the  corners  ?  We 
had  done  better  by  water,  what  though  it  be  dark. 
.  .  .  Lights  of  Bankside  on  the  water  ...  no  such 
sight  in  Europe,  they  tell  me.  .  .  .  My  Lord  of 
Surrey  took  boat  one  night  from  Westminster 
and  fired  into  their  windows  with  a  stone-bow, 
breaking  much  glass  .  .  .  drove  all  the  long- 
shore queans  screaming  into  the  streets  in  their 
night-rails.  .  .  .  He  went  to  the  Fleet  for  it  ...  a 
Privy  Council  matter.  ...  I  forgive  the  lad,  for 
my  part:  for  only  think  of  it — all  those  windows 
aflame  on  the  river,  and  no  such  river  in  Europe! — 

Where  many  a  barge  doth  sail  and  row  with  are; 

Where  many  a  ship  doth  rest  with  top-royall. 
O  towne  of  townes!  patrone  and  not  compare, 

London,  thou  art  the  flow  r  of  Cities  all! 

Who-oop!" 

"In  the  name  of "  stammered  Nashe,  as  he 

listened,  Burbage  all  the  while  clutching  his  arm. 

"He  dropped  from  the  top  gallery,  I  tell  you — 
clean  into  the  pit  from  the  top  gallery — and  he 
weighs  eighteen  stone  if  an  ounce.  'Your  servant, 
Sir,  and  of  all  the  Muses/  he  says,  picking  him- 
self up;  and  with  that  takes  the  hammer  from 
my  hand  and  plays  Pyrrhus  in  Troy — Pyrrhus 
with  all  the  ravening  Danai  behind  him:  for  those 
[21] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

hired  scoundrels  of  mine  took  fire,  and  started 
ripping  out  the  bowels  of  the  poor  old  theatre 
as  though  it  had  been  the  Fleet  and  lodged  all 
their  cronies  within!  It  went  down  before  my 
eyes  like  a  sand-castle  before  the  tide.  Within 
three  hours  they  had  wiped  the  earth  of  it.  The 
Lord  be  praised  that  Philip  Gosson  had  ne'er 
such  an  arm,  nor  could  command  such!  Oh, 
but  he's  a  portent!  Troy's  horse  and  Bankes's 
bay  gelding  together  are  a  fool  to  him :  he  would 
harness  them  as  Samson  did  the  little  foxes,  and 
fire  brushwood  under  their  tails.  .  .  ." 
"Of  a  certainty  you  are  drunk,  Dick." 
"Drunk?  I?"  Burbage  gripped  the  other's 
thin  arm  hysterically.  "  If  you  want  to  see  a  man 
drunk  come  to  the  gate.  Nay,  then,  stay  where 
you  are:  for  there's  no  escaping  him." 

Nor  was  there.  Between  them  and  the  wag- 
oners' lanterns  at  the  gate  a  huge  shadow  thrust 
itself,  the  owner  of  it  rolling  like  a  ship  in  a  sea- 
way, while  he  yet  recited  — 

"Strong  be  thy  walhs  that  about  tbee  stand is, 

(meaning  the  Clink,  my  son), 

Wise  be  the  people  that  within  tbee  dwellts, 

(which  you  may  take  for  the  inhabitants  thereof), 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

Fresh  is  thy  ryver  with  his  lusty  strandis, 
Bhth  be  thy  chtrches,  wele  sowning  be  thy  bellis" 

"Well  sounding  is  my  belly,  master,  any  way," 
put  in  a  high,  thin  voice;  "and  it  calls  on  a  gentle- 
man of  Warwickshire  to  redeem  his  promise." 

"He  shall,  he  shall,  lad  —  in  the  fullness  of  time: 
'but  before  dining  ring  at  the  bell/  says  the 
proverb.  Grope,  lad,  feel  along  the  gate-posts  if 
this  yard,  this  courtlage,  this  base-court,  hath  any 
such  thing  as  bell  or  knocker. 

And  when  they  came  to  mery  Carleile 

All  in  the  mornyng  tyde-a, 
They  found  the  gates  shut  them  until 

About  on  every  syde-a. 

Then  Adam  Bell  bete  on  the  gates 
With  strokes  great  and  stronge-a 

Step  warely,   lad.     Plague  of  this  forest!     Have 
we  brought  timber  to  Sherwood  ? 

With  strokes  great  and  stronge-a 
The  porter  marvelled  who  was  thereat, 
And  to  the  gates  he  thronge-a. 

They  called  the  porter  to  counsel], 

And  wrange  his  necke  in  two-a, 
And  caste  him  in  a  defe  dungeon, 

And  took  hys  keys  hym  fro-a. 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

Within!  You  rascal,  there,  with  the  lantern!  .  .  . 
Eh  ?  but  these  be  two  gentlemen,  it  appears  ?  I 
cry  your  mercy,  Sirs." 

"For  calling  us  rascals?*'  Nashe  stepped  for- 
ward. 'T  hath  been  done  to  me  before  now,  in 
print,  upon  as  good  evidence;  and  to  my  friend 
here  by  Act  of  Parliament." 

"But  seeing  you  with  a  common  stable-lan- 
tern  " 

"Yet  Diogenes  was  a  gentleman.  Put  it  that, 
like  him,  I  am  searching  for  an  honest  man." 

"Then  we  are  well  met.  F  faith  we  are  very 
well  met,"  responded  the  countryman,  recognis- 
ing Burbage's  grave  face  and  plum-coloured 
doublet. 

"Or,  as  one  might  better  say,  well  overtaken," 
said  Burbage. 

"Marry,  and  with  a  suit.  I  have  some  acquaint- 
ance, Sir,  with  members  of  your  honourable  call- 
ing, as  in  detail  and  at  large  I  could  prove  to  you. 
Either  I  have  made  poor  use  of  it  or  I  guess  aright, 
as  I  guess  with  confidence,  that  after  the  triumph 
will  come  the  speech-making,  and  the  supper's 
already  bespoken." 

"At  Nance  Witwold's,  by  the  corner  of  Paris 
Garden,  Sir,  where  you  shall  be  welcome." 

"I  thank  you,  Sir.     But  my  suit  is  rather  for 

[24] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

this  young  friend  of  mine,  to  whom  I  have  pledged 
my  word.'* 

"  He  shall  be  welcome,  too." 

"  He  tells  me,  Sir,  that  you  are  Richard  Burbage. 
I  knew  your  father  well,  Sir — an  honest  War- 
wickshire man:  he  condescended  to  my  roof  and 
tasted  my  poor  hospitality  many  a  time;  and  be- 
like you,  too,  Sir,  being  then  a  child,  may  have  done 
the  same :  for  I  talk  of  prosperous  days  long  since 
past  —  nay,  so  long  since  that  'twould  be  a  wonder 
indeed  had  you  remembered  me.  The  more 
pleasure  it  gives  me,  Sir,  to  find  James  Burbage's 
sappy  virtues  flourishing  in  the  young  wood,  and 
by  the  branch  be  reminded  of  the  noble  stock." 

"The  happier  am  I,  Sir,  to  have  given  you 
welcome  or  ever  I  heard  your  claim." 

"Faith!"  said  the  apprentice  to  himself,  "com- 
pliments begin  to  fly  when  gentlefolks  meet."  But 
he  had  not  bargained  to  sup  in  this  high  com- 
pany, and  the  prospect  thrilled  him  with  delicious 
terror.  He  glanced  nervously  across  the  yard, 
where  some  one  was  approaching  with  another 
lantern. 

"  My  claim  ? "  the  countryman  answered  Bur- 
bage. "You  have  heard  but  a  part  of  it  as  yet. 
Nay,  you  have  heard  none  of  it,  since  I  use  not 
past  hospitalities  with  old  friends  to  claim  a  return 

[25] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

from  their  children.  My  claim,  Sir,  is  a  livelier 
one " 

"Tom  Nashe!  Tom  Nashe!"  called  a  voice, 
clear  and  strong  and  masculine,  from  the  dark- 
ness behind  the  advancing  lantern. 

"Anon,  anon,  Sir,"  quoted  Nashe,  swinging 
his  own  lantern  about  and  mimicking. 

"Don't  tell  me  there  be  yet  more  wagons 
arrived  ? "  asked  the  voice. 

"Six,  lad — six,  as  I  hope  for  mercy:  and  outside 
the  gate  at  this  moment." 

"There  they  must  tarry,  then,  till  our  fellows 
take  breath  to  unload  'em.  But — six?  How  is 
it  managed,  think  you  ?  Has  Dick  Burbage  called 
out  the  train-bands  to  help  him  ?  Why,  hullo, 

Dick!  What  means The  newcomer's  eyes, 

round  with  wonder  as  they  rested  a  moment  on 
Burbage,  grew  rounder  yet  as  they  travelled  past 
him  to  the  countryman.  "  Father  ?"  he  stammered, 
incredulous. 

"Good  evening,  Will!  Give  ye  good  evening, 
my  son!  Set  down  that  lantern  and  embrace  me, 
like  a  good  boy:  a  good  boy,  albeit  a  man  of  fame. 
Didst  not  see  me,  then,  in  the  theatre  this  after- 
noon ?  Yet  was  I  to  the  fore  there,  methinks,  and 
proud  to  be  called  John  Shakespeare." 

"Nay,  I  was  not  there;  having  other  fish  to  fry." 

[26] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

"  Shouldst  have  heard  the  applause,  lad ;  it  warmed 

your  old  father's  heart.     Yet  'twas  no  more  than  the 

play  deserved.     A  very  neat,  pretty  drollery — upon 

my  faith,  no  man's  son  could  have  written  a  neater!" 

"But  what  hath  fetched  you  to  London  ?" 

"  Business,  business :  a  touch,  too,  maybe,  of  the 

old  homesickness:  but  business  first.     Dick  Qui- 

ney But  pass  me  the  lantern,  my  son,  that  I 

may  take  a  look  at  thee.  Ay,  thou  hast  sobered, 
thou  hast  solidified:  thy  beard  hath  ta'en  the 
right  citizen's  cut  —  'twould  ha*  been  a  cordial 
to  thy  poor  mother  to  see  thee  wear  so  staid 
a  beard.  Rest  her  soul!  There's  nothing  like 
property  for  filling  out  a  man's  frame,  firming 
his  eye,  his  frame,  bearing,  footstep.  Talking 
of  property,  I  have  been  none  so  idle  a  steward 
for  thee.  New  Place  I  have  made  habitable  — 
the  house  at  least;  patched  up  the  roof,  taken 
down  and  rebuilt  the  west  chimney  that  was  over- 
leaning  the  road,  repaired  the  launders,  enlarged 
the  parlour-window,  run  out  the  kitchen  passage 
to  a  new  back-entrance.  The  garden  I  cropped 
with  peas  this  summer,  and  have  set  lettuce  and 
winter-kale  between  the  young  apple-trees,  whereof 
the  whole  are  doing  well,  and  the  mulberry  like- 
wise I  look  for  to  thrive.  Well,  as  I  was  saying, 
Dick  Quiney " 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

"  —  Is  in  trouble  again,  you  need  not  tell." 

"None  so  bad  but  it  could  be  mended  by  the 
thirty  pounds  whereof  I  wrote.  Mytton  will  be 
security  with  him,  now  that  Bushell  draws  back. 
He  offers  better  than  those  few  acres  at  Shottery 
you  dealt  upon  in  January." 

"Land  is  land." 

"And  ale  is  ale:  you  may  take  up  a  mortgage 
on  the  brewhouse.  Hast  ever  heard,  Mr.  Bur- 
bage" — John  Shakespeare  swung  about — "of  a 
proverb  we  have  down  in  our  Warwickshire  ?  It 
goes  — 

Who  buys  land  buys  stones, 
Who  buys  meat  buys  bones, 
Who  buys  eggs  buys  shells, 
But  who  buys  ale  buys  nothing  else. 

And  that  sets  me  in  mind,  Will,  that  these  friends  of 
yours  have  bidden  me  to  supper:  and  their  throats 
will  be  dry  an  we  keep  'em  gaping  at  our  country 
discourse.  Here  come  I  with  Thespis,  riding  on 
a  wagon :  but  where  tarries  the  vintage  feast  ? 
Where  be  the  spigots  ?  Where  be  the  roasted 
geese,  capons,  sucking-pigs  ?  Where  the  hogs- 
puddings,  the  trifles,  the  custards,  the  frumenties  ? 
Where  the  minstrels  ?  Where  the  dancing  girls  ? 
I  have  in  these  three  hours  swallowed  as  many 
pecks  of  dust.  I  am  for  the  bucket  before  the 

[28] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

manger  and  for  good  talk  after  both — high,  brave 
translunary  talk  with  wine  in  the  veins  of  it — 
Hippocras  with  hippocrene:  with  music  too — 
some  little  kickshaw  whatnots  of  the  theorbo  or 
viol  da  gamba  pleasantly  thrown  in  for  interludes. 
'Tis  a  fog-pated  land  I  come  from,  with  a  pestilent 
rheumy  drip  from  the  trees  and  the  country  scarce 
recovered  from  last  year's  dearth " 

"Dick  Quiney  should  have  made  the  better 
prices  for  that  dearth,"  put  in  his  son,  knitting  his 
great  brow  thoughtfully.  "With  wheat  at  fifty 
shillings,  and  oats " 

"The  malt,  lad,  the  malt!  His  brewhouse 
swallowed  malt  at  twenty-eight  or  nine  which 
a  short  two  years  before  had  cost  him  twelve- 
and-threepence  the  quarter.  A  year  of  dearth, 
I  say.  It  took  poor  Dick  at  unawares.  But  give 
him  time:  he  will  pull  round.  Sure,  we  be  slow 
in  the  country,  but  you  have  some  in  this  town 
that  will  beat  us.  How  many  years,  lad,  have 
I  been  battering  the  doors  of  Heralds'  College 
for  that  grant  of  arms,  promised  ere  my  beard 
was  grey  and  yours  fully  grown  ?" 

"Malt  at  twenty-eight,  you  say?" 

"Last  year,  lad  —  a  year  of  dearth.  Call  it  a 
good  twenty  in  these  bettering  times,  and  wheat 
anything  under  forty-five  shillings." 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

"Well,  we  will  talk  it  over."  His  son  seemed 
to  come  out  of  a  brown  study.  "We  will  talk  it 
over,"  he  repeated  briskly,  and  added,  "How? 
The  chimney  overleaning  the  road  ?  'Twas  a 
stout  enough  chimney,  as  I  remember,  and  might 
have  lasted  another  twenty  years.  Where  did 
you  draw  the  bricks?" 

Nashe  glanced  at  his  friend  with  a  puzzled 
smile.  Burbage — better  used,  no  doubt,  to  the 
businesslike  ways  of  authors  —  betrayed  no  sur- 
prise. The  apprentice  stared,  scarcely  believ- 
ing his  ears.  Was  this  the  talk  of  Shakespeare  ? 
Nay,  rather  the  talk  of  Justice  Shallow  himself — 
"How  a  good  yoke  of  bullocks  at  Stamford  Fair  ?" 
"How  a  score  of  ewes  now  ?" 

A  heavy  tread  approached  from  the  gateway. 

"Are  we  to  bide  here  all  night,  and  on  Christ- 
mas morn,  too  ?"  a  gruff  voice  demanded.  "Un- 
pack, and  pay  us  our  wage,  or  we  tip  the  whole 
load  of  it  into  Thames."  Here  the  wagoner's 
shin  encountered  in  the  darkness  with  a  plank, 
and  he  cursed  violently. 

"Go  you  back  to  your  horses,  my  friend," 
answered  Burbage.  "The  unloading  shall  begin 
anon.  As  for  your  wage,  your  master  will  tell 
you  I  settled  it  at  the  time  I  bargained  for  his 
wagons — ay,  and  paid.  I  hold  his  receipt." 

[30] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

"  For  tenpence  a  man  —  mowers'  wages,"  growled 
the  wagoner. 

"I  asked  him  his  price  and  he  fixed  it.  'Tis  the 
current  rate,  I  understand,  and  a  trifle  over." 

"Depends  on  the  job.  I've  been  talkin'  with 
my  mates,  and  we  don't  like  it.  We're  decent  la- 
bouring men,  and  shifting  a  lot  of  play-actors' 
baggage  don't  come  in  our  day's  work.  I'd  as  lief 
wash  dirty  linen  for  my  part.  Therefore,"  the  fel- 
low wound  up  lucidly,  "you'll  make  it  twelvepence 
a  head,  master.  We  don't  take  a  groat  less." 

"I  see,"  said  Burbage  blandly:  "twopence  for 
salving  your  conscience,  hey  ?  And  so,  being 
a  decent  man,  you  don't  stomach  players  ?" 

"No,  nor  the  Bankside  at  this  hour  o*  night. 
I  live  clean,  I  tell  you." 

"Tis  a  godless  neighbourhood  and  a  violent." 
Burbage  drew  a  silver  whistle  from  his  doublet 
and  eyed  it.  "Listen  a  moment,  master  wagoner, 
and  tell  me  what  you  hear." 

"I  hear  music  o'  sorts.  No  Christmas  carols, 
I  warrant." 

"Aught  else?" 

"Ay:  a  sound  like  a  noise  of  dogs  baying  over 
yonder." 

"Right  again:  it  comes  from  the  kennels  by  the 
Bear-Pit.  Have  you  a  wish,  my  friend,  to  make 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

nearer  acquaintance  with  these  dogs  ?  No  ?  With 
the  bears,  then  ?  Say  the  word,  and  inside  of  a 
minute  I  can  whistle  up  your  two-pennyworth." 

The  wagoner  with  a  dropping  jaw  stared  from 
one  to  another  of  the  ring  of  faces  in  the  lantern- 
light.  They  were  quiet,  determined.  Only  the 
apprentice  stood  with  ears  pricked,  as  it  were, 
and  shivered  at  the  distant  baying. 

"No  offence,  Sir;  I  meant  no  offence,  you'll 
understand,"  the  wagoner  stammered. 

"Nay,  call  your  mates,  man!"  spoke  up  Wil- 
liam Shakespeare,  sudden  and  sharp,  and  with 
a  scornful  ring  in  his  voice  which  caused  our  ap- 
prentice to  jump.  "Call  them  in  and  let  us  hear 
you  expound  Master  Burbage's  proposal.  I  am 
curious  to  see  how  they  treat  you — having  an 
opinion  of  my  own  on  crowds  and  their  leaders." 

But  the  wagoner  had  swung  about  surlily  on 
his  heel. 

"I'll  not  risk  disputing  it,"  he  growled.  "'Tis 
your  own  dung-hill,  and  I  must  e'en  take  your 
word  that  'tis  worse  than  e'er  a  man  thought. 
But  one  thing  I'll  not  take  back.  You're  a  muck 
of  play-actors,  and  a  man  that  touches  ye  should 
charge  for  his  washing.  Gr-r!"  he  spat — "ye're 
worse  than  Patty  Ward's  sow,  and  she  was  no 
lavender!" 

[3*1 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

IV 

The  Bankside  was  demure.  But  for  the  distant 
baying  of  dogs  which  kept  him  shivering,  our 
apprentice  had  been  disappointed  in  the  wicked- 
ness of  it. 

He  had  looked  to  meet  with  roisterers,  to  pass 
amid  a  riot  of  taverns,  to  happen,  belike,  upon  a 
street  scuffle,  to  see  swords  drawn  or  perchance 
to  come  upon  a  body  stretched  across  the  road- 
way and  hear  the  murderers'  footsteps  in  the  dark- 
ness, running.  These  were  the  pictures  his  im- 
agination had  drawn  and  shuddered  at:  for  he 
was  a  youth  of  small  courage. 

But  the  Bankside  was  demure;  demure  as 
Chepe.  The  waterside  lanes  leading  to  Mistress 
Witwold's  at  the  corner  of  Paris  Gardens  dif- 
fered only  from  Chepe  in  this — that  though  the 
hour  was  past  midnight,  every  other  door  stood 
open  or  at  least  ajar,  showing  a  light  through 
the  fog.  Through  some  of  these  doorways  came 
the  buzz  and  murmur  of  voices,  the  tinkling  of 
stringed  instrument.  Others  seemed  to  await 
their  guests.  But  the  lanes  themselves  were  de- 
serted. 

From  the  overhanging  upper  storeys  lights 
showed  here  and  there  through  the  chinks  of 

[33] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

shutters  or  curtains.  Once  or  twice  in  the  shad- 
ows beneath,  our  apprentice  saw,  or  thought  he 
saw,  darker  shadows  draw  back  and  disappear: 
and  gradually  a  feeling  grew  upon  him  that  all 
these  shadows,  all  these  lidded  upper  windows, 
were  watching,  following  him  with  curious  eyes. 
Again,  though  the  open  doorways  were  bright  as 
for  a  fete,  a  something  seemed  to  subdue  the 
voices  within  —  a  constraint,  perhaps  an  expect- 
ancy—  as  though  the  inmates  whispered  together 
in  the  pauses  of  their  talk  and  between  the  soft 
thrumming  of  strings.  He  remarked,  too,  that 
his  companions  had  fallen  silent. 

Mother  Witwold's  door,  when  they  reached  it, 
stood  open  like  the  rest.  Her  house  overhung 
a  corner  where  from  the  main  street  a  short  alley 
ran  down  to  Paris  Garden  stairs.  Nashe,  who 
had  been  leading  along  the  narrow  pavement, 
halted  outside  the  threshold  to  extinguish  his 
lantern;  and  at  the  same  moment  jerked  his  face 
upward.  Aloft,  in  one  of  the  houses  across  the 
way,  a  lattice  had  flown  open  with  a  crash  of 
glass. 

"Jesulhelp!" 

The  cry  ended  in  a  strangling  sob.  The  hands 
that  had  thrust  the  lattice  open  projected  over 
the  sill.  By  the  faint  foggy  light  of  Mother  Wit- 

[34] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

wold's  doorway  our  apprentice  saw  them  out- 
stretched for  a  moment;  saw  them  disappear,  the 
wrists  still  rigid,  as  some  one  drew  them  back  into 
the  room.  But  what  sent  the  horror  crawling 
through  the  roots  of  his  hair  was  the  shape  of 
these  hands. 

"You  there!"  called  Nashe,  snatching  the 
second  lantern  from  Burbage's  hand  and  holding 
it  aloft  towards  the  dim  house-front.  "What's 
wrong  within  ?" 

A  woman's  hand  came  around  the  curtain 
and  felt  for  the  lattice  stealthily,  to  close  it. 
There  was  no  other  answer. 

"What's  wrong  there  ?"  demanded  Nashe  again. 

"Go  your  ways!"  The  voice  was  a  woman's, 
hoarse  and  angry,  yet  frightened  withal.  The 
curtain  still  hid  her.  "Haven't  I  trouble  enough 
with  these  tetchy  dwarfs,  but  you  must  add  to  it 
by  waking  the  streets  ?" 

"Dwarfs?"  Nashe  swung  the  lantern  so  that 
its  rays  fell  on  the  house-door  below :  a  closed  door 
and  stout,  studded  with  iron  nails.  "Dwarfs?" 
he  repeated. 

"Let  her  be,"  said  Burbage,  taking  his  arm. 
"I  know  the  woman.  She  keeps  a  brace  of  mis- 
begotten monsters  she  picked  up  at  Wapping 
off  a  ship's  captain.  He  brought  'em  home  from 

[35] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

the  Isle  of  Serendib,  or  Cathay,  or  some  such 
outlandish  coast,  or  so  she  swears  his  word  was/* 

"Swears,  doth  she?  Didst  hear  the  poor  thing 
cry  out  ? " 

"Ay,  like  any  Christian;  as,  for  aught  I  know,  it 
may  be.  There's  another  tale  that  she  found  'em 
down  in  Gloucestershire,  at  a  country  fair,  and 
keeps  'em  pickled  in  walnut  juice.  But  monsters 
they  be,  whether  of  Gloucester  or  Cathay,  for  I 
have  seen  'em;  and  so  hath  the  Queen,  who  sent 
for  them  the  other  day  to  be  brought  to  West- 
minster, and  there  took  much  delight  in  their 
oddity." 

While  the  others  hesitated,  William  Shake- 
speare turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  past  them 
into  Mother  Witwold's  lighted  doorway. 

His  father  glanced  after  him.  "Well,  to  be  sure, 
the  poor  thing  cried  out  like  a  Christian,"  he  said. 
"But  dwarfs  and  monsters  be  kittle  cattle  to 
handle,  I  am  told."  As  the  lattice  closed  on  their 
debate  he  linked  his  arm  in  the  apprentice's,  and 
they  too  passed  into  the  doorway. 

From  it  a  narrow  passage  led  straight  to  a 
narrow  staircase;  and  at  the  stairs'  foot  the  ap- 
prentice had  another  glimpse  into  the  life  of  this 
Bankside.  A  door  stood  wide  there  upon  an 
ill-lighted  room,  and  close  within  the  door  sat 

[36] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

two  men — foreigners  by  their  black-avised  faces  — 
casting  dice  upon  a  drumhead.  In  a  chair,  be- 
yond, a  girl,  low-bodiced,  with  naked  gleaming 
shoulders,  leaned  back  half  asleep;  and  yet  she 
did  not  seem  to  sleep,  but  to  regard  the  gamesters 
with  a  lazy  scorn  from  under  her  dropped  lashes. 
A  tambourine  tied  with  bright  ribbons  rested 
in  the  lap  of  her  striped  petticoat,  kept  from  slid- 
ing to  the  floor  by  the  careless  crook — you  could 
see  it  was  habitual — of  her  jewelled  fingers.  The 
two  men  looked  up  sharply,  almost  furtively, 
at  the  company  mounting  the  stairs.  The  girl 
scarcely  lifted  her  eyes.  Scornful  she  looked, 
and  sullen  and  infinitely  weary,  yet  she  was  beau- 
tiful withal.  The  apprentice  wondered  while  he 
climbed. 

"Yes,"  his  patron  was  saying,  "'tis  the  very 
mart  and  factory  of  pleasure.  Ne'er  a  want  hath 
London  in  that  way  but  the  Bankside  can  sup- 
ply it,  from  immortal  poetry  down  to  —  to " 

" — Down  to  misshapen  children.  Need'st  try 
no  lower,  my  master." 

"There  be  abuses,  my  son:  and  there  be  de- 
grees of  pleasure,  the  lowest  of  which  (I  grant 
you)  be  vile,  sensual,  devilish.  Marry,  I  defend 
not  such.  But  what  I  say  is  that  a  great  city 
should  have  delights  proportionate  to  her  great- 

[37] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

ness;  rich  shows  and  pageants  and  processions 
by  land  and  water;  plays  and  masques  and  ban- 
quets with  music;  and  the  men  who  cater  for  these 
are  citizens  as  worthy  as  the  rest.  Take  away 
Bankside,  and  London  would  be  the  cleaner  of 
much  wickedness:  yet  by  how  much  the  duller  of 
cheer,  the  poorer  in  all  that  colour,  that  move- 
ment which  together  be  to  cities  the  spirit  of 
life!  Where  would  be  gone  that  glee  of  her 
that  lifts  a  man's  lungs  and  swells  his  port  when 
his  feet  feel  London  stones  ?  Is't  of  her  money 
the  country  nurses  think  when  to  wondering  chil- 
dren they  fable  of  streets  all  paved  with  gold  ? 
Nay,  lad:  and  this  your  decent,  virtuous  folk 
know  well  enough — your  clergy,  your  aldermen  — 
and  use  the  poor  players  while  abusing  them. 
Doth  the  parish  priest  need  a  miracle-play  for 
his  church  ?  Doth  my  Lord  Mayor  intend  a 
show  ?  To  the  Bankside  they  hie  with  money 
in  their  purses:  and  if  his  purse  be  long  enough, 
my  Lord  Mayor  shall  have  a  fountain  running 
with  real  wine,  and  Mass  Thomas  a  Hell  with 
flames  of  real  cloth-in-grain,  or  at  least  a  Lazarus 
with  real  sores.  Doth  the  Court  require  a  masque, 
the  Queen  a  bull-baiting,  the  City  a  good  roaring 
tragedy,  full  of  blood  and  impugned  innocence- 
Will!  Will,  I  say!  Tarry  a  moment!" 

[38] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

They  had  reached  the  landing,  and  looked 
down  a  corridor  at  the  end  of  which,  where  a 
lamp  hung,  Shakespeare  waited  with  his  hand  on 
a  door-latch.  From  behind  the  door  came  a  buzz 
of  many  voices. 

"Lad,  lad,  let  us  go  in  together!  Though  the 
world's  applause  weary  thee,  'tis  sweet  to  thine 
old  father." 

As  he  pressed  down  the  latch  the  great  man 
turned  for  an  instant  with  a  quick  smile,  marvel- 
lously tender. 

"He  can  smile,  then?"  thought  the  apprentice 
to  himself.  "And  I  was  doubting  that  he  kept 
it  for  his  writing!" 

Within  the  room,  as  it  were  with  one  shout, 
a  great  company  leapt  to  its  feet,  cheering  and 
lifting  glasses.  Shakespeare,  pausing  on  the 
threshold,  smiled  again,  but  more  reservedly, 
bowing  to  the  homage  as  might  a  king. 


Three  hours  the  feast  had  lasted:  and  the  ap- 
prentice had  listened  to  many  songs,  many  speeches, 
but  scarcely  to  the  promised  talk  of  gods.  The 
poets,  maybe,  reserved  such  talk  for  the  Mer- 
maid. Here  they  were  outnumbered  by  the 
players  and  by  such  ladies  as  the  Bankside 

[39] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

(which  provided  everything)  furnished  to  grace 
the  entertainment;  and  doubtless  they  subdued 
their  discourse  to  the  company.  The  Burbages, 
Dick  and  Cuthbert,  John  Heminge,  Will  Kempe 
—  some  half-a-dozen  of  the  crew  perhaps — might 
love  good  literature:  but  even  these  were  pardon- 
ably more  elate  over  the  epilogue  than  over  the 
play.  For  months  they,  the  Lord  Chamberlain's 
servants,  had  felt  the  eyes  of  London  upon  them : 
to-night  they  had  triumphed,  and  to-morrow 
London  would  ring  with  appreciative  laughter. 
It  is  not  every  day  that  your  child  of  pleasure 
outwits  your  man  of  business  at  his  own  game: 
it  is  not  once  in  a  generation  that  he  scores  such 
a  hit  as  had  been  scored  to-day.  The  ladies, 
indeed,  yawned  without  dissembling,  while  Mas- 
ter Jonson — an  ungainly  youth  with  a  pimply 
face,  a  rasping  accent,  and  a  hard  pedantic  man- 
ner—  proposed  success  to  the  new  comedy  and 
long  life  to  its  author;  which  he  did  at  intermi- 
nable length;  spicing  his  discourse  with  quotations 
from  Aristotle,  Longinus,  Quintilian,  the  Ars 
Poetica,  Persius,  and  Seneca,  authors  less  studied 
than  the  Aretine  along  Bankside.  "He  loved 
Will  Shakespeare.  ...  A  comedy  of  his  own  (as 
the  company  might  remember)  owed  not  a  little 
to  his  friend  Will  Shakespeare's  acting.  .  .  .  Here 

[40] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

was  a  case  in  which  love  and  esteem — yes,  and 
worship  —  might  hardly  be  dissociated.  ...  In 
short,  speaking  as  modestly  as  a  young  man  might 
of  his  senior,  Will  Shakespeare  was  the  age's 
ornament  and,  but  for  lack  of  an  early  gruelling 
in  the  classics,  might  easily  have  been  an  orna- 
ment for  any  age.  Cuthbert  Burbage — it  is 
always  your  quiet  man  who  first  succumbs  on 
these  occasions  —  slid  beneath  the  table  with  a 
vacuous  laugh  and  lay  in  slumber.  Dick  Bur- 
bage sat  and  drummed  his  toes  impatiently. 
Nashe  puffed  at  a  pipe  of  tobacco.  Kempe,  his 
elbows  on  the  board,  his  chin  resting  on  his  palms, 
watched  the  orator  with  amused  interest,  mis- 
chief lurking  in  every  crease  of  his  wrinkled  face. 
Will  Shakespeare  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
scanned  the  rafters,  smiling  gently  the  while. 
His  speech,  when  his  turn  came  to  respond,  was 
brief,  almost  curt.  He  would  pass  by  (he  said) 
his  young  friend's  learned  encomiums,  and  come 
to  that  which  lay  nearer  to  their  thoughts  than 
either  the  new  play  or  the  new  play's  author. 
Let  them  fill  and  drink  in  silence  to  the  demise 
of  an  old  friend,  the  vanished  theatre,  the  first 
ever  built  in  London.  Then,  happening  to  glance 
at  Heminge  as  he  poured  out  the  wine — "Tut, 
Jack!"  he  spoke  up  sharply:  "keep  that  easy 

[4-] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

rheum  for  the  boards.  Brush  thine  eyes,  lad: 
we  be  all  players  here — or  women — and  know 
the  trade." 

It  hurt.  If  Heminge's  eyes  had  begun  to  water 
sentimentally,  they  flinched  now  with  real  pain. 
This  man  loved  Shakespeare  with  a  dog's  love. 
He  blinked,  and  a  drop  fell  and  rested  on  the  back 
of  his  hand  as  it  fingered  the  base  of  his  wine- 
glass. The  apprentice  saw  and  noted  it. 

"And  another  glass,  lads,  to  the  Phoenix  that 
shall  arise!  A  toast,  and  this  time  not  in  silence!" 
shouted  John  Shakespeare,  springing  up,  flask  in 
one  hand  and  glass  in  the  other.  Meat  or  wine, 
jest  or  sally  of  man  or  woman,  dull  speech  or  brisk 
—  all  came  alike  to  him.  His  doublet  was  un- 
buttoned; he  had  smoked  three  pipes,  drunk  a 
quart  of  sack,  and  never  once  yawned.  He  was 
enjoying  himself  to  the  top  of  his  bent.  "Music, 
I  say!  Music!"  A  thought  seemed  to  strike 
him;  his  eyes  filled  with  happy  inspiration.  Still 
gripping  his  flask,  he  rolled  to  the  door,  flung  it 
open,  and  bawled  down  the  stairway— 

"Ahoy!     Below,  there!" 

"Ahoy,  then,  with  all  my  heart!"  answered  a 
voice,  gay  and  youthful,  pat  on  the  summons. 
"What  is't  ye  lack,  my  master  ?" 

"Music,  an  thou  canst  give  it.     If  not — 

[42] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

"My  singing  voice  broke  these  four  years  past, 
I  fear  me." 

"Your  name,  then,  at  least,  young  man,  or 
ever  you  thrust  yourself  upon  private  company." 

"William  Herbert,  at  your  service."  A  hand- 
some lad — a  boy,  almost — stood  in  the  doorway, 
having  slipped  past  John  Shakespeare's  guard: 
a  laughing,  frank-faced  boy,  in  a  cloak  slashed 
with  orange-tawny  satin.  So  much  the  apprentice 
noted  before  he  heard  a  second  voice,  as  jaunty 
and  even  more  youthfully  shrill,  raised  in  protest 
upon  the  stairhead  outside. 

"And  where  the  master  goes,"  it  demanded, 
"may  not  his  page  follow?" 

John  Shakespeare  seemingly  gave  way  to  this 
second  challenge  as  to  the  first.  "Be  these 
friends  of  thine,  Will?"  he  called  past  them  as 
a  second  youth  appeared  in  the  doorway,  a  pretty, 
dark-complexioned  lad,  cloaked  in  white,  who 
stood  a  pace  behind  his  companion's  elbow  and 
gazed  into  the  supper-room  with  eyes  at  once  mis- 
chievous and  timid. 

"Good-evening,  gentles!"  The  taller  lad  com- 
prehended the  feasters  and  the  disordered  table 
in  a  roguish  bow.  Good-evening,  Will!"  He 
singled  out  Shakespeare,  and  nodded. 

"My  Lord  Herbert!" 

[43] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

The  apprentice's  eye,  cast  towards  Shakespeare 
at  the  salutation  given,  marked  a  dark  flush  rise 
to  the  great  man's  temples  as  he  answered  the  nod. 

"I  called  thee  'Will,'"  answered  Herbert  lightly. 

"You  called  us  'gentles,'"  Shakespeare  re- 
plied, the  dark  flush  yet  lingering  on  either  cheek. 
"A  word  signifying  bait  for  gudgeons,  bred  in 
carrion." 

"Yet  I  called  thee  Will,"  insisted  Herbert  more 
gently.  "Tis  my  name  as  well  as  thine,  and  we 
have  lovingly  exchanged  it  before  now,  or  my 
memory  cheats  me." 

"  'Tis  a  name  lightly  exchanged  in  love."  With 
a  glance  at  the  white-cloaked  page  Shakespeare 
turned  on  his  heel. 

"La,  Will,  where  be  thy  manners?"  cried  one 
of  the  women.  "Welcome,  my  young  Lord;  and 
welcome  the  boy  beside  thee  for  his  pretty  face! 
Step  in,  child,  that  I  may  pass  thee  round  to  be 
kissed." 

The  page  laughed  and  stepped  forward  with 
his  chin  defiantly  tilted.  His  eyes  examined  the 
women  curiously  and  yet  with  a  touch  of  fear. 

"Nay,  never  flinch,  lad!  I'll  do  thee  no  harm," 
chuckled  the  one  who  had  invited  him.  "Mass 
o'  me,  how  I  love  modesty  in  these  days  of  scan- 
dal!" 

[44] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

"Music?  Who  called  for  music?"  a  foreign 
voice  demanded:  and  now  in  the  doorway  ap- 
peared three  newcomers,  two  men  and  a  woman 
— the  same  three  of  whom  the  apprentice  had 
caught  a  glimpse  within  the  room  at  the  stairs' 
foot.  The  spokesman,  a  heavily  built  fellow 
with  a  short  bull-neck  and  small  cunning  eyes, 
carried  a  drum  slung  about  his  shoulders  and  beat 
a  rub-a-dub  on  it  by  way  of  flourish.  "Take 
thy  tambourine  and  dance,  Julitta — 

"Julie,    prends    ton    tambourin; 
Toi,  prends  ta  flute,  Robin," 

he  hummed,  tapping  his  drum  again. 

"So?  So?  What  foreign  gabble  is  this?" 
demanded  John  Shakespeare,  following  and  lay- 
ing a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"A  pretty  little  carol  for  Christmas,  Signore, 
that  we  picked  up  on  our  way  through  Burgundy, 
where  they  sing  it  to  a  jargon  I  cannot  emulate. 
But  the  tune  is  as  it  likes  you  — 

Au   son   ces   instruments  — 

Turelurelu,  patapatapan  — 
Nous  dirons  Noel  garment! 

Goes  it  not  trippingly,  Signore  ?    You  will  say  so 
when  you  see  my  Julitta  dance  to  it." 

[45] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

"Eh — eh  ?  Dance  to  a  carol  ?"  a  woman  pro- 
tested. 'Tis  inviting  the  earth  to  open  and 
swallow  us." 

"Why,  where's  the  harm  on  't?"  John  Shake- 
speare demanded.  "A  pretty  little  concomi- 
tant, and  anciently  proper  to  all  religions,  nor 
among  the  heathen  only,  but  in  England  and  all 
parts  of  Christendom  — 

In   manger  wrapped  it  was  — 

So  poorly  bapp'd  my  chance  — 
Between  an  ox  and  a  silly  poor  ass 

To  call  my  true  love  to  the  dance! 
Sing  0,  my  love,  my  love,  my  love.  .  .  . 

There's  precedent  for  ye,  Ma'am — good  Eng- 
lish precedent.  Zooks!  I'm  a  devout  man,  I 
hope;  but  I  bear  a  liberal  mind  and  condemn 
no  form  of  mirth,  so  it  be  honest.  The  earth 
swallow  us  ?  Ay,  soon  or  late  it  will,  not  being 
squeamish.  Meantime,  dance,  I  say!  Clear 
back  the  tables  there,  and  let  the  girl  show  her 
paces!" 

Young  Herbert  glanced  at  Burbage  with  lifted 
eyebrow,  as  if  to  demand,  "Who  is  this  madman  ?" 
Burbage  laughed,  throwing  out  both  hands. 

"But  he  is  gigantic!"  lisped  the  page,  as  with 
a  wave  of  his  two  great  arms  John  Shakespeare 
seemed  to  catch  up  the  company  and  fling  them 

[46] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

to  work  pell-mell,  thrusting  back  tables,  piling 
chairs,  clearing  the  floor  of  its  rushes.  "He  is  a 
whirlwind  of  a  man!" 

"Come,  Julitta!"  called  the  man  with  the  drum. 
"Francisco,  take  thy  pipe,  man! — 

Au  son  de  ces  instruments  — 
Turelurelu,   patafatapan  —  " 

As  the  music  struck  up,  the  girl,  still  with  her 
scornful,  impassive  face,  leapt  like  a  panther  from 
the  doorway  into  the  space  cleared  for  her,  and 
whirled  down  the  room  in  a  dance  the  like  of  which 
our  apprentice  had  never  seen  nor  dreamed  of. 
And  yet  his  gaze  at  first  was  not  for  her,  but  for  the 
younger  foreigner,  the  one  with  the  pipe.  For  if 
ever  horror  took  visible  form,  it  stood  and  stared 
from  the  windows  of  that  man's  eyes.  They  were 
handsome  eyes,  too,  large  and  dark  and  passion- 
ate: but  just  now  they  stared  blindly  as  though 
a  hot  iron  had  seared  them.  Twice  they  had 
turned  to  the  girl,  who  answered  by  not  so  much 
as  a  glance;  and  twice  with  a  shudder  upon  the 
man  with  the  drum,  who  caught  the  look  and 
blinked  wickedly.  Worst  of  all  was  it  when  the 
music  began,  to  see  that  horror  fixed  and  staring 
over  a  pair  of  cheeks  ludicrously  puffing  at  a 
flageolet.  A  face  for  a  gargoyle!  The  apprentice 

[47] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

shivered,  and  glanced  from  one  to  other  of  the 
company:  but  they,  one  and  all,  were  watching 
the  dancer. 

It  was  a  marvellous  dance,  truly.  The  girl,  her 
tambourine  lifted  high,  and  clashing  softly  to  the 
beat  of  the  music,  whirled  down  the  length  of  the 
room,  while  above  the  pipe's  falsetto  and  rumble 
of  the  drum  the  burly  man  lifted  his  voice  and 
trolled  — 

"  Turelurelu,  patapatapan  — 
A u  son  de  ces  instruments 
Faisons  la  nique  a  Satan!" 

By  the  barricade  of  chairs  and  tables,  under 
which  lay  Cuthbert  Burbage  in  peaceful  stupor, 
she  checked  her  onward  rush,  whirling  yet,  but 
so  lazily  that  she  seemed  for  the  moment  to  stand 
poised,  her  scarf  outspread  like  the  wings  of  a 
butterfly:  and  so,  slowly,  very  slowly,  she  came 
floating  back.  Twice  she  repeated  this,  each  time 
narrowing  her  circuit,  until  she  reached  the  middle 
of  the  floor,  and  there  began  to  spin  on  her  toes 
as  a  top  spins  when  (as  children  say)  it  goes  to 
sleep.  The  tambourine  no  longer  clashed.  Bal- 
anced high  on  the  point  of  her  uplifted  forefinger, 
it  too  began  to  spin,  and  span  until  its  outline 
became  a  blur.  Still,  as  the  music  rose  shriller 
and  wilder,  she  revolved  more  and  more  rapidly, 

[48] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

yet  apparently  with  less  and  less  of  effort.  Her 
scarf  had  become  a  mere  filmy  disc  rotating 
around  a  whorl  of  gleaming  flesh  and  glancing 
jewels. 

A  roar  of  delight  from  John  Shakespeare 
broke  the  spell.  The  company  echoed  it  with 
round  upon  round  of  hand-clapping.  The  music 
ceased  suddenly,  and  the  dancer,  dipping  low 
until  her  knees  brushed  the  floor,  stood  erect 
again,  dropped  her  arms,  and  turned  carelessly 
to  the  nearest  table. 

"Bravo!  bravissimo!"  thundered  John  Shake- 
speare. "A  cup  of  wine  for  her,  there!" 

The  girl  had  snatched  up  a  crust  of  bread  and 
was  gnawing  it  ravenously.  He  thrust  his  way 
through  the  guests  and  poured  out  wine  for  her. 
She  took  the  glass  with  a  steady  hand,  scarcely 
pausing  in  her  meal  to  thank  him. 

"But  who  is  your  master  of  ceremonies?" 
demanded  the  page's  piping  voice. 

William  Shakespeare  heard  it  and  turned.  "He 
is  my  father,"  said  he  quietly. 

But  John  Shakespeare  had  heard  also.  Wheel- 
ing about,  wine-flask  in  hand,  he  faced  the  lad 
with  a  large  and  mock-elaborate  bow.  "That, 
young  Sir,  must  be  my  chief  title  to  your  notice. 
For  the  rest,  I  am  a  plain  gentleman  of  Warwick- 

[49] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

shire,  of  impaired  but  (I  thank  God)  bettering 
fortune;  my  name  John  Shakespeare;  my  coat, 
or,  a  bend  sable,  charged  with  a  lance  proper. 
One  of  these  fine  days  I  may  bring  it  to  Court 
for  you  to  recognise:  but,  alas!  says  Skelton  — 

Age  is  a  page 

For  the  Court  full  unmeet, 
For  age  cannot  rage 

Nor  buss  her  sweet  sweet. 

I  shall  bide  at  home  and  kiss  the  Queen's  hand, 
through  my  son,  more  like." 

"Indeed,"  said  the  page,  "I  hear  reports  that 
her  Majesty  hath  already  a  mind  to  send  for  him." 

"Is  that  so,  Will?"  His  father  beamed,  de- 
lighted. 

"In  some  sort  it  is,"  answered  Herbert,  "and 
in  some  sort  I  am  her  messenger's  forerunner. 
She  will  have  a  play  of  thee,  Will." 

"The  Queen?"  Shakespeare  turned  on  him 
sharply.  "This  is  a  fool's  trick  you  play  on  me, 
my  Lord."  Yet  his  face  flushed  in  spite  of  him- 
self. 

"I  tell  thee,  straight  brow  and  true  man,  I 
heard  the  words  fall  from  her  very  lips.  'He 
shall  write  us  a  play,'  she  said;  'and  this  Falstaff 
shall  be  the  hero  on't,  with  no  foolish  royalties 
to  overlay  and  clog  his  mirth." 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

"And,  you  see,"  put  in  the  page  maliciously, 
"we  have  come  express  to  the  Boar's  Head  to 
seek  him  out." 

"That,"  Herbert  added,  "is  our  suit  to-night." 

"Will,  lad,  thy  fortune's  made!"  John  Shake- 
speare clapped  a  hand  on  his  son's  shoulder.  "I 
shall  see  thee  Sir  William  yet  afore  I  die!" 

If  amid  the  general  laughter  two  lines  of  vex- 
ation wrote  themselves  for  a  moment  on  Shake- 
speare's brow  they  died  out  swiftly.  He  stood 
back  a  pace,  eyed  his  father  awhile  with  grave  and 
tender  humour,  and  answered  the  pair  of  courtiers 
with  a  bow. 

"  Her  Majesty's  gracious  notion  of  a  play,"  said 
he,  "must  needs  be  her  poor  subject's  pattern.  If 
then  I  come  to  Court  in  motley,  you,  Sirs,  at  least 
will  be  indulgent,  knowing  how  much  a  suit  may 
disguise."  The  page,  meeting  his  eye,  laughed 
uneasily.  'Tis  but  a  frolic "  he  began. 

"Ay,  there's  the  pity  o't,"  interrupted  a  deep 
voice  —  Kempe's. 

The  page  laughed  again,  yet  more  nervously. 
"I  should  have  said  the  Queen  —  God  bless  her! 
—desires  but  a  frolic.  And  I  had  thought" — 
here  he  lifted  his  chin  saucily  and  looked  Kempe 
in  the  face—  "that  on  Bankside  they  took  a  frolic 
less  seriously." 

[51] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

"Why,  no,"  answered  Kempe:  "they  have  to 
take  it  seriously,  and  the  cost  too, — that  being  their 
business." 

:  'Tis  but  a  frolic,  at  any  rate,  that  her  Majesty 
proposes,  with  a  trifling  pageant  or  dance  to  con- 
clude, in  which  certain  of  the  Court  may  join." 

A  harsh  laugh  capped  this  explanation.  It  came 
from  the  dancing-girl,  who,  seated  at  the  disor- 
dered table,  had  been  eating  like  a  hungry  beast. 
She  laid  down  her  knife,  rested  her  chin  on  her 
clasped  hands,  and,  munching  slowly,  stared  at 
the  page  from  under  her  sullen,  scornful  brows. 

"Wouldst  learn  to  dance,  child?"  she  de- 
manded. 

"With  thee  for  teacher,"  the  page  answered 
modestly.  "I  have  no  skill,  but  a  light  foot 
only."  ' 

"A  light  foot!"  the  woman  mimicked  and  broke 
into  a  laugh  horrible  to  hear.  "Wouldst  achieve 
such  art  as  mine  with  a  light  foot  ?  I  tell  thee  that 
to  dance  as  I  dance  thy  feet  must  go  deep  as  hell!" 
She  pushed  back  her  plate,  and,  rising,  nodded 
to  the  musicians.  "Play,  you!"  she  commanded. 

This  time  she  used  no  wild  whirl  down  the  room 
to  give  her  impetus.  She  stood  in  the  cleared 
space  of  floor,  her  arms  hanging  limp,  and  at  the 
first  shrill  note  of  the  pipe  began  to  revolve  on 

[5*] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

the  points  of  her  toes,  her  eyes,  each  time  as  they 
came  full  circle,  meeting  the  gaze  of  the  page,  and 
slowly  fascinating,  freezing  it.  As  slowly,  delib- 
erately, her  hand  went  up,  curved  itself  to  the 
armpit  of  her  bodice;  and  lo!  as  she  straightened 
it  aloft,  a  snake  writhed  itself  around  her  upper 
arm,  lifting  its  head  to  reach  the  shining  bracelets, 
the  jewelled  fingers.  A  curving  lift  of  the  left 
arm,  and  on  that  too  a  snake  began  to  coil  and 
climb.  Effortless,  rigid  as  a  revolving  statue,  she 
brought  her  finger-tips  together  overhead  and 
dipped  them  to  her  bosom. 

A  shriek  rang  out,  piercing  high  above  the  music. 

"Catch  her!  She  faints!"  shouted  Kempe, 
darting  forward.  But  it  was  Shakespeare  who 
caught  the  page's  limp  body  as  it  dropped  back 
on  his  arm.  Bearing  it  to  the  window,  he  tore 
aside  the  curtain  and  thrust  open  a  lattice  to  the 
dawn.  The  unconscious  head  drooped  against 
his  shoulder. 

"My  Lord" — he  turned  on  Herbert  as  though 
the  touch  maddened  him — "you  are  a  young  fool! 
God  forgive  me  that  I  ever  took  you  for  better! 
Go,  call  a  boat  and  take  her  out  of  this." 

"Nay,  but  she  revives,"  stammered  Herbert, 
as  the  page's  lips  parted  in  a  long,  shuddering 
sigh. 

[53] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

"Go,  fetch  a  boat,  I  say!  —  and  make  way  there, 
all  you  by  the  door!" 

VI 

"  Tut !  tut !  —  the  wench  will  come  to  fast  enough 
in  the  fresh  air.  A  dare-devil  jade,  too,  to  be 
sparking  it  on  Bankside  at  this  hour!  But  it  takes 
more  than  a  woman,  they  say,  to  kill  a  mouse,  and 
with  serpents  her  sex  hath  an  ancient  feud.  What's 
her  name,  I  wonder?" 

The  candles,  burning  low  and  guttering  in  the 
draught  of  the  open  window,  showed  a  banquet- 
hall  deserted,  or  all  but  deserted.  A  small  crowd 
of  the  guests — our  apprentice  among  them  —  had 
trooped  downstairs  after  Shakespeare  and  his 
burden.  Others,  reminded  by  the  grey  dawn, 
had  slipped  away  on  their  own  account  to  hire  a 
passage  home  from  the  sleepy  watermen  before 
Paris  Garden  Stairs. 

"Can  any  one  tell  me  her  name,  now  ?"  repeated 
John  Shakespeare,  rolling  to  the  table  and  pour- 
ing himself  yet  another  glass  of  wine.  But  no  one 
answered  him.  The  snake-woman  had  folded 
back  her  pets  within  her  bodice  and  resumed  her 
meal  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  The 
burly  drummer  had  chosen  a  chair  beside  her  and 
fallen  to  on  the  remains  of  a  pasty.  Both  were 

[54] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

eating  voraciously.  Francisco,  the  pipe-player, 
sat  sidesaddle-wise  on  a  form  at  a  little  distance 
and  drank  and  watched  them,  still  with  the  horror 
in  his  eyes.  One  or  two  women  lingered,  and 
searched  the  tables,  pocketing  crusts  —  searched 
with  faces  such  as  on  battlefields,  at  dawn,  go 
peering  among  the  dead  and  wounded. 

"But  hullo!"  John  Shakespeare  swung  round, 
glass  in  hand,  as  the  apprentice  stood  panting  in 
the  doorway.  "Faith,  you  return  before  I  had 
well  missed  you." 

The  lad's  eyes  twinkled  with  mischief. 

"An  thou  hasten  not,  master,  I  fear  me  thou 
may'st  miss  higher  game;  with  our  hosts — your  son 
amongst  'em — even  now  departing  by  boat  and, 
for  aught  I  know,  leaving  thee  to  pay  the  shot." 

"Michael  and  all  his  angels  preserve  us!  I  had 
forgot— 

John  Shakespeare  clapped  a  hand  on  his  empty 
pocket,  and  ran  for  the  stairhead.  "Will!"  he 
bawled.  "Will!  My  son  Will!" 

The  apprentice  laughed  and  stepped  toward  the 
window,  tittuping  slightly;  for  (to  tell  the  truth) 
he  had  drunk  more  wine  than  agreed  with  him. 
Standing  by  the  window,  he  laughed  again  vacu- 
ously, drew  a  long  breath,  and  so  spun  round  on  his 
heels  at  the  sound  of  a  choking  cry  and  a  rush  of 

[55] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

feet.  With  that  he  saw,  as  in  a  haze — his  head 
being  yet  dizzy — the  heavy  man  catch  up  his  drum 
by  its  strap  and,  using  it  as  a  shield,  with  a  back- 
ward sweep  of  the  arm  hurl  off  the  youth  Fran- 
cisco, who  had  leapt  on  him  knife  in  hand.  Clutch- 
ing the  curtain,  he  heard  the  knife  rip  through 
the  drum's  parchment  and  saw  the  young  man's 
face  of  hate  as  the  swift  parry  flung  him  back 
staggering,  upsetting  a  form,  against  the  table's 
edge.  He  saw  the  glasses  there  leap  and  totter 
from  the  shock,  heard  their  rims  jar  and  ring 
together  like  a  peal  of  bells. 

The  sound  seemed  to  clear  his  brain.  He  could 
not  guess  what  had  provoked  the  brawl;  but  in 
one  and  the  same  instant  he  saw  the  drummer 
reach  back  an  arm  as  if  to  draw  the  dancing  woman 
on  his  knee;  heard  his  jeering  laugh  as  he  slipped 
a  hand  down  past  her  bare  shoulder;  saw  her 
unmoved  face,  sullenly  watching;  saw  Francisco, 
still  clutching  his  knife,  gather  himself  up  for 
another  spring.  As  he  sprang  the  drummer's 
hand  slid  round  from  behind  the  woman's  back, 
and  it  too  grasped  a  knife.  An  overturned  chair 
lay  between  the  two,  and  the  rail  of  it  as  Francisco 
leapt  caught  his  foot,  so  that  with  a  clutch  he  fell 
sideways  against  the  table.  Again  the  glasses 
jarred  and  rang,  and  yet  again  and  more  loudly  as 

[56] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

the  drummer's  hand  went  up  and  drove  the  dagger 
through  the  neck,  pinning  it  to  the  board.  The 
youth's  legs  contracted  in  a  horrible  kick,  con- 
tracted again  and  fell  limp.  There  was  a  gush 
of  blood  across  the  cloth,  a  sound  of  breath  es- 
caping and  choked  in  its  escape:  and  as  the  killer 
wrenched  out  his  knife  for  a  second  stroke,  the 
body  slid  with  a  thud  to  the  floor. 

The  apprentice  had  feasted,  and  feasted  well; 
yet  throughout  the  feast  (he  bethought  himself  of 
this  later),  no  serving-man  and  but  one  serving- 
maid  had  entered  the  room.  Wines  and  dishes 
had  come  at  call  to  a  hatch  in  the  wall  at  the  far 
end  of  the  room.  One  serving-maid  had  done  all 
the  rest,  moving  behind  the  guests'  chairs  with  a 
face  and  mien  which  reminded  him  of  a  tall  angel 
he  had  seen  once  borne  in  a  car  of  triumph  at  a 
City  show.  But  now  as  he  left  his  curtain,  twitter- 
ing, crazed  with  fear,  spreading  out  both  hands 
toward  the  stain  on  the  tablecloth,  a  door  beside 
the  hatch  opened  noiselessly,  and  swift  and  prompt 
as  though  they  had  been  watching,  two  men  en- 
tered, flung  a  dark  coverlet  over  the  body,  lifted 
and  bore  it  off,  closing  the  door  behind  them. 
They  went  as  they  had  come,  swiftly,  without  a 
word.  He  had  seen  it  as  plainly  as  he  saw  now 
the  murderer  sheathing  his  knife,  the  woman 

[57] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

sullenly  watching  him.  The  other  women,  too, 
had  vanished — they  that  had  been  gleaning  among 
the  broken  crusts.  Had  they  decamped,  scurry- 
ing, at  the  first  hint  of  the  brawl  ?  He  could  not 
tell :  they  had  been,  and  were  not. 

He  stretched  out  both  hands  towards  the  man, 
the  woman  —  would  they,  too,  vanish  ?  —  and  the 
damning  stain  ?  A  cry  worked  in  his  throat,  but 
would  not  come. 

"Gone!"  a  voice  called,  hearty  at  once  and  dis- 
consolate, from  the  doorway  behind  him.  "Gone 
— given  me  the  slip,  as  I  am  a  Christian  sinner. 
What  ?  You  three  left  alone  here  ?  But  where 
is  our  friend  the  piper?" 

The  apprentice  made  a  snatch  at  a  flask  of 
wine,  and,  turning,  let  its  contents  spill  wildly  over 
the  bloodied  tablecloth. 

"Art  drunk,  lad — shamefully  drunk,"  said 
John  Shakespeare,  lurching  forward.  "  They  have 
given  me  the  slip,  I  say,  and  ne'er  a  groat  have  I 
to  redeem  my  promises." 

"They  paid  the  score  below — I  saw  them;  and 
this  thy  son  charged  me  to  hand  to  thee."  The 
apprentice  drew  a  full  purse  from  his  pocket  and 
flung  it  on  the  table.  "I  —  I  played  thee  a  trick, 
master:  but  let  me  forth  into  fresh  air.  This 
room  dizzies  me.  ..." 

[58] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

"Go  thy  ways — go  thy  ways,  child.  For  my 
part  I  was  ever  last  at  a  feast  to  leave  it,  and  would 
crack  one  more  cup  with  these  good  folk.  To 
your  health,  Madam!"  He  reached  a  hand  for 
the  wine-flask  as  the  apprentice  set  it  down  and 
went  forth,  tottering  yet. 

VII 

Dawn  was  breaking  down  the  river;  a  grey  dawn 
as  yet,  albeit  above  the  mists  rolling  low  upon  the 
tide-way  a  clear  sky  promised  gold  to  come — a 
golden  Christmas  Day.  The  mist,  however,  had 
a  chill  which  searched  the  bones.  The  red-eyed 
waterman  pulled  as  though  his  arms  were  numb. 
Tom  Nashe  coughed  and  huddled  his  cloak  about 
him,  as  he  turned  for  a  last  backward  glance  on 
Bankside,  where  a  few  lights  yet  gleamed,  and  the 
notes  of  a  belated  guitar  tinkled  on,  dulled  by 
the  vapours,  calling  like  a  thin  ghost  above  the 
deeper  baying  of  the  hounds. 

"Take  care  of  thyself,  lad,"  said  Shakespeare 
kindly,  stretching  out  a  hand  to  help  his  friend 
draw  the  cloak  closer. 

"Behoved  me  think  of  that  sooner,  I  doubt," 
Nashe  answered,  glancing  up  with  a  wry,  pa- 
thetic smile,  yet  gratefully.  He  dropped  his  eyes 
to  the  cloak  and  quoted  - 

[59] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

"Sometime  it  was  of  cloth-in-grain, 

'Tis  now  but  a  sigh-clout,  as  you  may  see; 
It  will  bold  out  neither  wind  nor  rain  — 

and  —  and  —  I  thank  thee,  Will 


But  I'll  take  my  old  cloak  about  me. 

There's  salt  in  the  very  warp  of  it,  good  Yarmouth 
salt.  Will?" 

"Ay,  lad?" 

"Is't  true  thou'rt  become  a  landowner,  down  in 
thy  native  shire  ? " 

"In  a  small  way,  Tom." 

"A  man  of  estate  ?  with  coat-of-arms  and  all  ?" 

"Even  that  too,  with  your  leave." 

"I  know — I  know.  Nescio  qua  natale  solum  — 
those  others  did  not  understand:  but  I  under- 
stood. Yes,  and  now  I  understand  that  fifth 
act  of  thine,  which  puzzled  me  afore,  and  yet  had 
not  puzzled  me;  but  I  fancied — poor  fool! — that 
the  feeling  was  singular  in  me.  'Twas  a  vile 
life,  Will."  He  jerked  a  thumb  back  at  Bankside. 

"Ay,  'tis  vile." 

"My  cough  translates  it  into  the  past  tense; 
but — then,  or  now,  or  hereafter — 'tis  vile.  Count 
them  up,  Will — the  lads  we  have  drunk  with 
aforetime.  There  was  Greene,  now " 

Shakespeare  bent  his  head  for  tally. 

[60] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

" — I  can  see  his  poor  corse  staring  up  at  the  raft- 
ers :  there  on  the  shoemaker's  bed,  with  a  chaplet 
of  laurel  askew  on  the  brow.  The  woman  meant 
it  kindly,  poor  thing!  .  .  .  She  forgot  to  close  his 
eyes,  though.  With  my  own  fingers  I  closed  'em, 
and  borrowed  two  penny  pieces  of  her  for  weights. 
'Twas  the  first  dead  flesh  I  had  touched,  and  I 
feel  it  now.  .  .  .  But  George  Peele  was  worse,  ten 
times  worse.  I  forget  if  you  saw  him  ?" 

Again  Shakespeare  bent  his  head. 

"  And  poor  Kit  ?  You  saw  Kit,  I  know  .  .  . 
with  a  hole  below  the  eye,  they  told  me,  where 
the  knife  went  through.  And  that  was  our  Kit, 
our  hope,  pride,  paragon,  our  Daphnis.  Dam- 
nation, and  this  is  art!  Didst  hear  that  blotch- 
faced  youngster,  that  Scotchman,  how  he  prated 
of  it,  laying  down  the  law  ? " 

"That  Jonson,  Tom,  is  a  tall  poet,  or  will  be." 

"The  devil  care  I!  Tall  poet  or  not,  he  is  no 
Englishman  and  understands  not  the  race.  Art 
is  not  for  us.  We  have  dreamed  dreams,  thou  and 
I:  and  thy  dreams  are  coming  to  glory.  But  the 
last  dream  of  a  true  Englishman  is  to  own  a  few 
good  English  acres  and  die  respected  in  a  dear, 
if  narrow,  round.  Dear  Will,  there  is  more  in 
this  than  greed.  There  is  the  call  of  the  land, 
which  is  home.  For  me — thou  knowest  —  I  had 

[61] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

ne'er  the  gift  of  saving.  My  bolt  is  shot,  or  al- 
most: two  years  at  farthest  must  see  the  end  of 
me.  But  when  thou  rememberest,  bethink  thee 
that  I  understood  the  call.  Wilt  guess  what  I  am 
writing,  now  at  the  last  ?  A  great  book  —  a  sound 
book  —  and  all  of  the  red-herring!  Ay,  the  red- 
herring,  staple  of  my  own  Yarmouth.  Canst 
never,  as  an  inland  man,  rise  to  the  virtues  of 
that  fish  nor  to  the  merit  of  my  handling.  But 
I  have  read  some  pages  of  it  to  my  neighbours 
there  and  I  learn  from  their  approving  looks  that 
I  shall  die  respected.  Yet  I,  too,  forgot  and 
dreamed  of  art.  .  .  ." 

******* 

On  the  Bankside  at  the  foot  of  Paris  Garden 
Stairs,  deserted  now  of  watermen,  a  youth  sat 
with  his  teeth  chattering. 

Above,  while  he  tried  to  clench  his  teeth,  a 
window  opened  stealthily.  There  was  a  heavy 
splash  on  the  tideway,  and  the  window  shut  to, 
softly  as  it  had  opened.  He  watched.  He  was 
past  fear.  The  body  bobbed  once  to  the  surface, 
half  a  furlong  below  the  spreading,  fading  circles 
thrown  to  the  foot  of  Paris  Garden  Stairs.  It  did 
not  rise  again.  The  Bankside  knew  its  business. 

A  heavy  footfall  came  down  the  steps  to  the 
landing-stage. 

[62] 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHRISTMAS 

"A  glorious  night!" 

The  apprentice  watched  the  river. 

"A  glorious  night!  A  night  to  remember! 
Tell  me,  lad,  have  I  made  good  my  promises, 
or  have  I  not  ?" 

"They  rise  thrice  before  sinking,  I  have  always 
heard,"  twittered  the  lad. 

"What  the  devil  art  talking  of?  Here,  take 
my  cloak,  if  thou  feelest  the  chill.  The  water- 
men here  ply  by  shifts,  and  we  shall  hail  a  boat 
anon  to  take  us  over.  Meanwhile,  if  thou  hast 
eyes,  boy,  look  on  the  river  —  see  the  masts  there, 
below  bridge,  the  sun  touching  them!  —  see  the 
towers  yonder,  in  the  gold  of  it! 

London,  thou  art  the  flower  of  cities  all! 

-Eh,  lad?" 

The  sun's  gold,  drifted  through  the  fog,  touched 
the  side  of  a  small  row-boat  nearing  the  farther 
shore.  Behind,  and  to  right  and  left  along 
Bankside,  a  few  guitars  yet  tinkled.  Across  the 
tide  came  wafted  the  voices  of  London's  Christ- 
mas bells. 


[63] 


YE    SEXES,    GIVE    EAR! 

A   STORY   FROM   A   CHIMNEY-CORNER 

A  GOOD  song,  and  thank  'ee,  Sir,  for  singing  it! 
Time  was,  you'd  never  miss  hearing  it  in  these 
parts,  whether  'twas  feast  or  harvest-supper  or 
Saturday  night  at  the  public.  A  virtuous  good 
song,  too;  and  the  merry  fellow  that  made  it 
won't  need  to  cast  about  and  excuse  himself 
when  the  graves  open  and  he  turns  out  with  his 
fiddle  under  his  arm.  My  own  mother  taught 
it  to  me;  the  more  by  token  that  she  came  from 
Saltash,  and  "Ye  sexes,  give  ear"  was  a  terrible 
favourite  with  the  Saltash  females  by  reason  of 
Sally  Hancock  and  her  turn-to  with  the  press- 
gang.  Hey  ?  You  don't  tell  me,  after  singing 
the  song,  that  you  never  heard  tell  of  Sally  Han- 
cock ?  Well,  if 1  Here,  take  and  fill  my 

mug,  somebody! 

'Tis  an  instructive  tale,  too.  .  .  .  This  Sally 
was  a  Saltash  fishwoman,  and  you  must  have  heard 
of  them,  at  all  events.  There  was  Bess  Rablin, 
too,  and  Mary  Kitty  Climo,  and  Thomasine 
Oliver,  and  Long  Eliza  that  married  Treleaven 

[65] 


YE   SEXES,  GIVE   EAR! 

the  hoveller,  and  Pengelly's  wife  Ann;  these 
made  up  the  crew  Sally  stroked  in  the  great  race. 
And  besides  these  there  was  Nan  Scantlebury  - 
she  took  Bess  Rablin's  oar  the  second  year,  Bess 
being  a  bit  too  fond  of  lifting  her  elbow,  which 
affected  her  health  —  and  Phemy  Sullivan,  an 
Irishwoman,  and  Long  Eliza's  half-sister  Charlotte 
Prowse,  and  Rebecca  Tucker,  and  Susan  Trebil- 
cock,  that  everybody  called  "Apern,"  and  a 
dozen  more  maybe:  powerful  women  every  one, 
and  proud  of  it.  The  town  called  them  Sally 
Hancock's  Gang,  she  being  their  leader,  though 
they  worked  separate,  shrimping,  cockling,  dig- 
ging for  lug  and  long-lining,  bawling  fish  through 
Plymouth  streets,  even  a  hovelling  job  at  times  — 
nothing  came  amiss  to  them,  and  no  weather. 
For  a  trip  to  Plymouth  they'd  put  on  sea-boots 
belike,  or  grey  stockings  and  clogs:  but  at  home 
they  went  bare-legged,  and  if  they  wore  anything 
'pon  their  heads  'twould  be  a  handkerchief,  red 
or  yellow,  with  a  man's  hat  clapped  a-top;  coats 
too,  and  guernseys  like  men's,  and  petticoats  a 
short  few  inches  longer;  for  I'm  telling  of  that 
back-along  time  when  we  fought  Boney  and  while 
seafaring  men  still  wore  petticoats  —  in  these 
parts  at  any  rate.  Well,  that's  how  Sally  and 
her  mates  looked  on  week-a-days,  and  that's 
[66] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

how  they  behaved:  but  you  must  understand 
that,  though  rough,  they  were  respectable;  the 
most  of  them  Wesley  an  Methodists;  and  on 
Sundays  they'd  put  on  bonnet  and  sit  in  chapel, 
and  drink  their  tea  afterwards  and  pick  their 
neighbours  to  pieces  just  like  ordinary  Christians. 
Sal  herself  was  a  converted  woman,  and  greatly 
exercised  for  years  about  her  husband's  condi- 
tion, that  kept  a  tailor's  shop  half-way  down 
Fore  Street  and  scoffed  at  the  word  of  Grace; 
though  he  attended  public  worship,  partly  to 
please  his  customers  and  partly  because  his  wife 
wouldn't  let  him  off. 

The  way  the  fun  started  was  this.  In  June 
month  of  the  year  'five  (that's  the  date  my  mother 
always  gave)  the  Wesleyans  up  at  the  London 
Foundry  sent  a  man  down  to  preach  a  revival 
through  Cornwall,  starting  with  Saltash.  He 
had  never  crossed  the  Tamar  before,  but  had 
lived  the  most  of  his  life  near  Wolverhampton  — 
a  bustious  little  man,  with  a  round  belly  and  a 
bald  head  and  high  sense  of  his  own  importance. 
He  arrived  on  a  Saturday  night,  and  attended 
service  next  morning,  but  not  to  take  part  in  it: 
he  "wished  to  look  round,"  he  said.  So  the 
morning  was  spent  in  impressing  everyone  with 
his  shiny  black  suit  of  West-of-England  broad- 

[67] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

cloth  and  his  beautiful  neckcloth  and  bunch  of 
seals.  But  in  the  evening  he  climbed  the  pulpit, 
and  there  Old  Nick  himself,  that  lies  in  wait  for 
preachers,  must  have  tempted  the  poor  fellow  to 
preach  on  Womanly  Perfection,  taking  his  text 
from  St.  Paul. 

He  talked  a  brave  bit  about  subjection,  and 
how  a  woman  ought  to  submit  herself  to  her 
husband,  and  keep  her  head  covered  in  places  of 
public  worship.  And  from  that  he  passed  on  to 
say  that  'twas  to  this  beautiful  submissiveness 
women  owed  their  amazing  power  for  good,  and 
he,  for  his  part,  was  going  through  Cornwall  to 
tackle  the  womenfolk  and  teach  'em  this  beauti- 
ful lesson,  and  he'd  warrant  he'd  leave  the  whole 
county  a  sight  nearer  righteousness  than  he 
found  it.  With  that  he  broke  out  into  axtempory 
prayer  for  our  dear  sisters,  as  he  called  them, 
dusted  his  knees,  and  gave  out  the  hymn,  all  as 
pleased  as  Punch. 

Sal  walked  home  from  service  alongside  of  her 
husband,  very  thoughtful.  Deep  down  in  the 
bottom  of  his  heart  he  was  afraid  of  her,  and  she 
knew  it,  though  she  made  it  a  rule  to  treat  him 
kindly.  But  knowing  him  for  a  monkey-spirited 
little  man,  and  spiteful  as  well  as  funny,  you 
could  never  be  sure  when  he  wouldn't  break  out. 
[68] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

To-night  he  no  sooner  gets  inside  his  own  door 
than  says  he  with  a  dry  sort  of  a  chuckle  — 

"Powerful  fine  sermon,  this  evenin'.  A  man 
like  that  makes  you  think." 

"Ch't!"  says  Sally,  tossing  her  bonnet  on  to 
the  easy-chair  and  groping  about  for  the  tinder- 
box. 

"Sort  of  doctrine  that's  badly  needed  in  Salt- 
ash,"  says  he.  "But  I'd  ha'  bet  'twould  be 
wasted  on  you.  Well,  well,  if  you  can't  under- 
stand logic,  fit  and  fetch  supper,  that's  a  good 
soul!" 

"Ch't!"  said  Sally  again,  paying  no  particular 
attention,  but  wondering  what  the  dickens  had 
become  of  the  tinder-box.  She  couldn't  find  it 
on  the  chimney-piece,  so  went  off  to  fetch  the 
kitchen  one. 

When  she  came  back,  there  was  my  lord  seated 
in  the  easy-chair  —  that  was  hers  by  custom  — 
and  puffing  away  at  his  pipe — a  thing  not  allowed 
until  after  supper.  You  see,  he  had  collared 
the  tinder-box  when  he  first  came  in,  and  had 
hidden  it  from  her. 

Sal  lit  the  lamp,  quiet-like.  "I  s'pose  you 
know  you're  sittin'  'pon  my  best  bonnet?"  said 
she. 

This  took  him  aback.     He  jumped  up,  found 

[69] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

the  bonnet  underneath  him  sure  enough,  and 
tossed  it  on  to  the  table.  "Gew-gaws!"  said  he, 
settling  himself  down  again  and  puffing.  "  Gew- 
gaws and  frippery!  That  man'll  do  good  in  this 
country;  he's  badly  wanted." 

Sal  patted  the  straw  of  her  bonnet  into  some- 
thing like  shape  and  smoothed  out  the  ribbons. 
"If  it'll  make  you  feel  like  a  breadwinner,"  said 
she,  "there's  a  loaf  in  the  bread-pan.  The  cold 
meat  and  pickles  are  under  lock  and  key,  and 
we'll  talk  o'  them  later."  She  fitted  the  bonnet 
on  and  began  to  tie  the  strings. 

"You  don't  tell  me,  Sarah,  that  you  mean  to  go 
gadding  out  at  this  time  of  the  evening?"  cries 
he,  a  bit  chapfallen,  for  he  knew  she  carried  the 
keys  in  an  under-pocket  beneath  her  skirt. 

"And  you  don't  suppose,"  answers  she,  "that 
I  can  spare  the  time  to  watch  you  play-actin'  in 
my  best  chair?  No,  no,  my  little  man!  Sit 
there  and  amuse  yourself:  what  you  do  don't 
make  a  ha'porth  of  odds.  But  there's  others  to 
be  considered,  and  I'm  going  to  put  an  end  to 
this  nonsense  afore  it  spreads." 

The  time  of  the  year,  as  I've  told  you,  was  near 
about  midsummer,  when  a  man  can  see  to  read 
print  out-of-doors  at  nine  o'clock.  Service  over, 
the  preacher  had  set  out  for  a  stroll  across  the 

[7°] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

hayfields  towards  Trematon,  to  calm  himself  with 
a  look  at  the  scenery  and  the  war-ships  in  the 
Hamoaze  and  the  line  of  prison-hulks  below, 
where  in  those  days  they  kept  the  French  prisoners. 
He  was  strolling  back,  with  his  hands  clasped 
behind  him  under  his  coat-tails,  when  on  the 
knap  of  the  hill,  between  him  and  the  town,  he 
caught  sight  of  a  bevy  of  women  seated  among 
the  hay-pooks  —  staid  middle-aged  women,  all 
in  dark  shawls  and  bonnets,  chattering  there  in 
the  dusk.  As  he  came  along  they  all  rose  up 
together  and  dropped  him  a  curtsey. 

"Good  evenin',  preacher  dear,"  says  Sally, 
acting  spokeswoman;  "and  a  very  fine  night  for 
the  time  of  year." 

I  reckon  that  for  a  moment  the  preacher  took 
a  scare.  Monstrous  fine  women  they  were  to 
be  sure,  looming  up  over  him  in  the  dimmety 
light,  and  two  or  three  of  them  tall  as  Grenadiers. 
But  hearing  himself  forespoken  so  pleasantly, 
he  came  to  a  stand  and  peered  at  them  through 
his  gold-rimmed  glasses. 

"Ah,  good  evening,  ladies!"  says  he.  "You 
are,  I  presoom,  members  of  the  society  that  I've 
just  had  the  privilege  of  addressin*  ?"  And 
thereupon  they  dropped  him  another  curtsey 
altogether.  "Like  me,  I  dare  say  you  find  the 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

scent  of  the  new-mown  hay  refreshingly  grateful. 
And  what  a  scene!  What  a  beautiful  porch,  so 
to  speak,  to  the  beauties  of  Cornwall!  —  beauties 
of  which  I  have  often  heard  tell." 

"Yes,  Sir,"  answers  Sal  demurely.  "Did  you 
ever  hear  tell,  too,  why  Old  Nick  never  came  into 
Cornwall?" 

"H'm — ha — some  proverbial  saying,  no  doubt  ? 
But  —  you  will  excuse  me  —  I  think  we  should 
avoid  speaking  lightly  of  the  great  Enemy  of 
Mankind." 

"He  was  afraid,"  pursued  Sal,  "of  being  put 
into  a  pie."  She  paused  at  that,  giving  her  words 
time  to  sink  in.  The  preacher  didn't  notice  yet 
awhile  that  Long  Eliza  Treleaven  and  Thomasine 
Oliver  had  crept  round  a  bit  and  planted  them- 
selves in  the  footpath  behind  him. 

After  a  bit  Sal  let  herself  go  in  a  comfortable 
smile,  and  says  she,  in  a  pretty,  coaxing  voice, 
"Sit  yourself  down,  preacher,  that's  a  dear:  sit 
yourself  down,  nice  and  close,  and  have  a  talk!" 

The  poor  fellow  fetched  a  start  at  this.  He 
didn't  know,  of  course,  that  everyone's  "my  dear" 
in  Cornwall,  and  I'm  bound  to  say  I've  seen 
foreigners  taken  aback  by  it  —  folks  like  com- 
mercial travellers,  not  given  to  shyness  as  a  rule. 

"You'll  excuse  me,  Madam." 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

"No,  I  won't:  not  if  you  don't  come  and  sit 
down  quiet.  Bless  the  man,  I'm  not  going  to 
eat  'ee  —  wouldn't  harm  a  hair  of  your  dear 
little  head,  if  you  had  any!  What  ?  You  refuse  ? " 

"How  dare  you,  Madam!"  The  preacher 
drew  himself  up,  mighty  dignified.  "How  dare 
you  address  me  in  this  fashion!" 

"I'm  addressin'  you  for  your  good,"  answered 
Sally.  "We've  been  talkin'  over  your  sermon, 
me  and  my  friends  here  —  all  very  respectable 
women  —  and  we've  made  up  our  minds  that  it 
won't  do.  We  can't  have  it  'pon  our  conscience 
to  let  a  gentleman  with  your  views  go  kicking  up 
Jack's  delight  through  the  West.  We  owe  some- 
thing more  to  our  sex.  'Wrestlin''  with  'em  — 
that  was  one  of  your  expressions  —  'wrestlin' 
with  our  dear  Cornish  sisters'!" 

"In  the  spirit  —  a  figure  of  speech,"  explained 
the  poor  man,  snappy-like. 

Sal  shook  her  head.  "They  know  all  about 
wrestlin'  down  yonder.  I  tell  you,  'twon't  do. 
You're  a  well-meaning  man,  no  doubt;  but  you're 
terribly  wrong  on  some  points.  You'd  do  an 
amazing  amount  of  mischief  if  we  let  you  run 
loose.  But  we  couldn't  take  no  such  responsi- 
bility—  indeed  we  couldn't:  and  the  long  and 
short  of  it  is,  you've  got  to  go." 

[73] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

She  spoke  these  last  words  very  firmly.  The 
preacher  flung  a  glance  round  and  saw  he  was  in  a 
trap. 

"Such  shameless  behaviour '  he  began. 

"You've  got  to  go  back,"  repeated  Sally,  nod- 
ding her  head  at  him.  "Take  my  advice  and  go 
quiet." 

"I  can  only  suppose  you  to  be  intoxicated," 
said  he,  and  swung  round  upon  the  path  where 
Thomasine  Oliver  stood  guard.  "Allow  me  to 
pass,  Madam,  if  you  please!" 

But  here  the  mischief  put  it  into  Long  Eliza 
to  give  his  hat  a  flip  by  the  brim.  It  dropped 
over  his  nose  and  rolled  away  in  the  grass.  "Oh, 
what  a  dear  little  bald  head!"  cried  Long  Eliza; 
"I  declare  I  must  kiss  it  or  die!"  She  caught  up 
a  handful  of  hay  as  he  stooped,  and  —  well,  well, 
Sir!  Scandalous,  as  you  say!  Not  a  word  be- 
yond this  would  any  of  them  tell :  but  I  do  believe 
the  whole  gang  rolled  the  poor  man  in  the  hay 
and  took  a  kiss  off  him  —  "  making  sweet  hay," 
as  'tis  called.  'Twas  only  known  that  he  paid 
the  bill  for  his  lodging  a  little  after  dawn  next 
morning,  took  up  his  bag,  and  passed  down  Fore 
Street  towards  the  quay.  Maybe  a  boat  was 
waiting  for  him  there:  at  all  events,  he  was  never 
seen  again  —  not  on  this  side  of  Tamar. 

[74] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

Sal  went  back,  composed  as  you  please,  and 
let  herself  in  by  the  front-door.  In  the  parlour 
she  found  her  man  still  seated  in  the  easy-chair 
and  smoking,  but  sulky-like,  and  with  most  of 
his  monkey-temper  leaked  out  of  him. 

"What  have  you  been  doin',  pray  ?"  asks  he. 

Sal  looked  at  him  with  a  twinkle.  "Kissin'," 
says  she,  untying  her  bonnet:  and  with  that  down 
she  dropped  on  a  chair  and  laughed  till  her  sides 
ached. 

Her  husband  ate  humble  pie  that  night  before 
ever  he  set  fork  in  the  cold  meat:  and  for  some 
days  after,  though  she  kept  a  close  eye  on  him, 
he  showed  no  further  sign  of  wanting  to  be  lord 
of  creation.  "Nothing  like  promptness,"  thought 
Sally  to  herself.  "  If  I  hadn't  taken  that  nonsense 
in  hand  straight  off,  there's  no  telling  where  it 
wouldn't  have  spread."  By  the  end  of  the  week 
following  she  had  put  all  uneasiness  out  of  her 
head. 

Next  Saturday  —  as  her  custom  was  on  Satur- 
days —  she  traded  in  Plymouth,  and  didn't  reach 
home  until  an  hour  or  more  past  nightfall,  hav- 
ing waited  on  the  Barbican  for  the  evening  fish- 
auction,  to  see  how  prices  were  ruling.  'Twas 
near  upon  ten  o'clock  before  she'd  moored  her 

[75] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

boat,  and  as  she  went  up  the  street  past  the  Fish 
and  Anchor  she  heard  something  that  fetched  her 
to  a  standstill. 

She  stood  for  a  minute,  listening;  then  walked 
in  without  more  ado,  set  down  her  baskets  in  the 
passage,  and  pushed  open  the  door  of  the  bar- 
room. There  was  a  whole  crowd  of  men  gathered 
inside,  and  the  place  thick  with  tobacco-smoke. 
And  in  the  middle  of  this  crew,  with  his  back  to 
the  door,  sat  her  husband  piping  out  a  song  — 

Ye  sexes,  give  ear  to  my  fancy  ; 

In  the  praise  of  good  women  I  sing, 
It  is  not  of  Doll,  Kate,  or  Nancy, 

The  mate  of  a  clown  nor  a  King  — 
With  my  fol-de-rol,  tooral-i-lay  ! 

Old  Adam,  when  he  was  creyated, 

Was  lord  of  the  Universe  round  ; 
Yet  his  happiness  was  not  complated 

Until  that  a  help-mate  he'd  found. 

He  had  all  things  for  food  that  was  wanting, 
Which  give  us  content  in  this  life  ; 

He  had  horses  and  foxes  for  hunting, 
Which  many  love  more  than  a  wife,  — 
With  my  fol-de-rol,  tooral-i-lay  ! 

He  had  sung  so  far  and  was  waving  his  pipe- 
stem  for  the  chorus  when  the  company  looked  up 
and  saw  Sal  straddling  in  the  doorway  with  her 

[76] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

fists  on  her  hips.  The  sight  daunted  them  for 
a  moment:  but  she  held  up  a  finger,  signing  them 
to  keep  the  news  to  themselves,  and  leaned  her 
shoulder  against  the  door-post  with  her  eyes 
steady  on  the  back  of  her  husband's  scrag  neck. 
His  fate  was  upon  him,  poor  varmint,  and  on  he 
went,  as  gleeful  as  a  bird  in  a  bath  — 

He'd  a  garden  so  planted  by  natur' 
As  man  can't  produce  in  this  life  ; 

But  yet  the  all-wise  great  Creaytor 
Perceived  that  he  -wanted  a  wife. 

With  his  fol-de-rol,  tooral-i-lay  ! 

"You  chaps  might  be  a  bit  heartier  with  the 
chorus,"  he  put  in.  "A  man  would  almost  think 
you  was  afraid  of  your  wives  overhearin'  — 

Old  Adam  was  laid  in  a  slumber, 
And  there  he  lost  part  of  his  side  ; 

And  when  he  awoke  in  great  wonder 
He  beyeld  his  beyeautiful  bride. 

With  my  fol-de-rol,  tooral  —  why,  whatever's 
wrong  with  'ee  all  ?  You're  as  melancholy  as  a 
passel  of  gib-cats."  [And  with  that  he  caught 
the  eye  of  a  man  seated  opposite,  and  slewed 
slowly  round  to  the  door.] 

I  tell  you  that  even  Sal  was  forced  to  smile, 
and  the  rest,  as  you  may  suppose,  rolled  to  and 

[77] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

fro  and  laughed  till  they  cried.  But  when  the 
landlord  called  for  order  and  they  hushed  them- 
selves to  hear  more,  the  woman  had  put  on  a  face 
that  made  her  husband  quake. 

"Go  ahead,  Hancock!"  cried  one  or  two. 

"'With  transport  he  gazed '  Sing  away, 

man!" 

"I  will  not,"  said  the  tailor,  very  sulky.  "This 
here's  no  fit  place  for  women:  and  a  man  has  his 
feelin's.  I'm  astonished  at  you,  Sarah  —  I  reely 
am.  The  wife  of  a  respectable  tradesman!" 
But  he  couldn't  look  her  straight  in  the  face. 

"Why,  what's  wrong  with  the  company?" 
she  asks,  looking  around.  "Old,  young,  and 
middle-aged,  I  seem  to  know  them  all  for  Saltash 
men:  faults,  too,  they  have  to  my  knowledge: 
but  it  passes  me  what  I  need  to  be  afeared  of. 
And  only  a  minute  since  you  was  singing  that 
your  happiness  wouldn't  be  completed  until  that 
a  helpmate  you'd  found.  Well,  you've  found 
her:  so  sing  ahead  and  be  happy." 

"I  will  not,"  says  he,  still  stubborn. 

"Oh,  yes  you  will,  my  little  man,"  says  she  in  a 
queer  voice,  which  made  him  look  up  and  sink 
his  eyes  again. 

"Well,"  says  he,  making  the  best  of  it,  "to 
please  the  missus,  naybours,  we'll  sing  the  whole 

[78] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

randigal    through.     And.  after    that,    Sarah" 
here  he  pretended  to  look  at  her  like  one  in  com- 
mand—  "you'll  walk  home  with  me  straight." 

"You  may  lay  to  that,"  Sal  promised  him: 
and  so,  but  in  no  very  firm  voice,  he  pitched  to 
the  song  again  - 

With  transport  be  gazed  upon  her, 
His  happiness  then  was  complate  ; 

And  he  blessed  the  marvellous  forethought 
That  on  him  bestowed  such  a  mate  — 

"I  reckon,  friends,  we'll  leave  out  the  chorus!" 

They  wouldn't  hear  of  this,  but  ri-tooralled 
away  with  a  will,  Sal  watching  them  the  while 
from  the  doorway  with  her  eyebrows  drawn 
down,  like  one  lost  in  thought. 

She  was  not  took  out  of  his  bead, 

To  reign  or  to  triumph  o'er  man  ; 
She  was  not  took  out  of  bis  feet, 

By  man  to  be  tramped  upon. 

But  she  was  took  out  of  his  side, 

His  equal  and  partner  to  be  : 
Though  they  be  yunited  in  one, 

Still  the  man  is  the  top  of  the  tree  ! 
With  my  fol-de-rol,  tooral-i-lay  ! 

"Well,  and  what's  wrong  wi'  that?"  Hancock 
wound  up,  feeling  for  his  courage  again. 

[79] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

"Get  along  with  'ee,  you  ninth-part-of-a-man ! 
Me  took  out  of  your  side!" 

"Be  that  as  it  may,  the  Fish  and  Anchor  is  no 
place  for  discussing  of  it,"  the  man  answered, 
very  dignified.  "Enough  said,  my  dear!  We'll 
be  getting  along  home."  He  stood  up  and 
knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe. 

But  Sally  was  not  to  be  budged.  "I  knew  how 
'twould  be,"  she  spoke  up,  facing  the  company. 
"I  took  that  preacher-fellow  on  the  ground  hop, 
as  I  thought,  and  stopped  his  nonsense;  but  some- 
thing whispered  to  me  that  'twas  a  false  hope. 
Evil  communications  corrupt  good  manners,  and 
now  the  mischief's  done.  There's  no  peace  for 
Saltash  till  you  men  learn  your  place  again,  and 
I'm  resolved  to  teach  it  to  'ee.  You  want  to 
know  how  ?  Well,  to  start  with,  by  means  of  a 
board  and  a  piece  o'  chalk,  same  as  they  teach  at 
school  nowadays." 

She  stepped  a  pace  further  into  the  room,  shut 
home  the  door  behind  her,  and  cast  her  eye  over 
the  ale-scores  on  the  back  of  it.  There  were  a 
dozen  marks,  maybe,  set  down  against  her  own 
man's  name;  but  for  the  moment  she  offered  no 
remark  on  this. 

"Mr.  Oke,"  says  she,  turning  to  the  landlord, 
"I  reckon  you  never  go  without  a  piece  o'  chalk 


LANDLORD  OKE  GAVE  A  FLOURISH  WITH  HIS  CHALK  AND  WROTE 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR  I 

in  your  pocket.     Step  this  way,  if  you  please,  and 
draw  a  line  for  me  round  what  these  lords  of 
creation  owe  ye  for  drink.     Thank'ee.     And  now 
be  good  enough  to  fetch  a  chair  and  stand  'pon 
it;  I  want  you  to  reach  so  high  as  you  can  - 
Ready  ?    Now  take  your  chalk   and  write,   be- 
ginning near  the  top  o'  the  door:  'I,  Sarah  Han- 
cock- 
Landlord  Oke  gave  a  flourish  with  his  chalk 
and  wrote,  Sally  dictating,  — 

"'I,  Sarah  Hancock  —  do  hereby  challenge  all 
the  men  in  Saltash  Borough  —  that  me  and  five 
other  females  of  the  said  Borough  —  will  row  any 
six  of  them  any  distance  from  one  to  six  statute 
miles  —  and  will  beat  their  heads  off— pulling 
either  single  oars  or  double  paddles  or  in  ran-dan 
-  the  stakes  to  be  six  pound  aside.  And  I  do 
further  promise,  if  beaten,  to  discharge  all  scores 
below.' 

"Now  the  date,  please  —  and  hand  me  the 
chalk." 

She  reached  up  and  signed  her  name  bold  and 
free,  being  a  fair  scholar.  "And  now,  my  little 
fellow,"  says  she,  turning  to  her  husband,  "put 
down  that  pipe  and  come'st  along  home.  The 
man's  at  the  top  of  the  tree,  is  he  ?  You'll  wish 
you  were,  if  I  catch  you  at  any  more  tricks!" 

[81] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

Well,  at  first  the  mankind  at  the  Fish  and  Anchor 
allowed  that  Sal  couldn't  be  in  earnest;  this  chal- 
lenge of  hers  was  all  braggadoshy;  and  one  or 
two  went  so  far  as  to  say  'twould  serve  her  right 
if  she  was  taken  at  her  word.  In  fact,  no  one 
treated  it  seriously  until  four  days  later,  at  high- 
water,  when  the  folks  that  happened  to  be  idling 
'pon  the  Quay  heard  a  splash  off  Runnell's  boat- 
building yard,  and,  behold!  off  Runnell's  slip 
there  floated  a  six-oared  gig,  bright  as  a  pin  with 
fresh  paint.  'Twas  an  old  condemned  gig,  that 
had  lain  in  his  shed  ever  since  he  bought  it  for  a 
song  off  the  Indefatigable  man-o'-war,  though 
now  she  looked  almost  too  smart  to  be  the  same 
boat.  Sally  had  paid  him  to  put  in  a  couple  of 
new  strakes  and  plane  out  a  brand-new  set  of 
oars  in  place  of  the  old  ashen  ones,  and  had 
painted  a  new  name  beneath  the  old  one  on  the 
sternboard,  so  that  now  she  was  the  Indefatigable 
Woman  for  all  the  world  to  see.  And  that  very 
evening  Sally  and  five  of  her  mates  paddled  her 
past  the  Quay  on  a  trial  spin,  under  the  eyes  of 
the  whole  town. 

There  was  a  deal  of  laughing  up  at  the  Fish  and 
Anchor  that  night,  the  most  of  the  customers  still 
treating  the  affair  as  a  joke.  But  Landlord  Oke 
took  a  more  serious  view. 

[82] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

"'Tis  all  very  well  for  you  fellows  to  grin," 
says  he,  "but  I've  been  trying  to  make  up  in 
my  mind  the  crew  that's  going  to  beat  these 
females,  and,  by  George!  I  don't  find  it  so  easy. 
There's  the  boat,  too." 

"French-built,  and  leaks  like  a  five-barred 
gate,"  said  somebody.  "The  Admiralty  con- 
demned her  five  year'  ago." 

"A  leak  can  be  patched,  and  the  Admiralty's 
condemning  goes  for  nothing  in  a  case  like  this. 
I  tell  you  that  boat  has  handsome  lines  —  hand- 
some as  you'd  wish  to  see.  You  may  lay  to  it 
that  what  Sal  Hancock  doesn't  know  about  a 
boat  isn't  worth  knowing." 

"All  the  same,  I'll  warrant  she  never  means  to 
row  a  race  in  that  condemned  old  tub.  She've 
dragged  it  out  just  for  practice,  and  painted  it 
up  to  make  a  show.  When  the  time  comes  — 
if  ever  it  do  —  she'll  fit  and  borrow  a  new  boat 
off  one  of  the  war-ships.  We  can  do  the  same." 

"Granted  that  you  can,  there's  the  question 
of  the  crew.  Sal  has  her  thwarts  manned  —  or 
womanned,  as  you  choose  to  put  it  —  and  maybe 
a  dozen  reserves  to  pick  from  in  case  of  accident. 
She  means  business,  I  tell  you.  There's  Regatta 
not  five  weeks  away,  and  pretty  fools  we  shall 
look  if  she  sends  round  the  crier  on  Regatta  Day 

[83] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

'O-yessing'  to  all  the  world  that  Saltash  men  can't 
raise  a  boat's  crew  to  match  a  passel  of  females, 
and  two  of  'em"  —  he  meant  Mary  Kitty  Climo 
and  Ann  Pengelly  —  "  mothers  of  long  families." 
They  discussed  it  long  and  they  discussed  it 
close,  and  this  way  and  that  way,  until  at  last 
Landlord  Oke  had  roughed-out  a  crew.  There 
was  no  trouble  about  a  stroke.  That  thwart 
went  nem.  con.  to  a  fellow  called  Seth  Ede,  that 
worked  the  ferry  and  had  won  prizes  in  his  day 
all  up  and  down  the  coast:  indeed,  the  very  Ply- 
mouth men  had  been  afraid  of  him  for  two  or 
three  seasons  before  he  gave  up  racing,  which 
was  only  four  years  ago.  Some  doubted  that 
old  Roper  Retallack,  who  farmed  the  ferry  that 
year,  would  spare  Seth  on  Regatta-day:  but  Oke 
undertook  to  arrange  this.  Thwart  No.  4  went 
with  no  more  dispute  to  a  whackin'  big  water- 
man by  the  name  of  Tremenjous  Hosken,  very 
useful  for  his  weight,  though  a  trifle  thick  in  the 
waist.  As  for  strength,  he  could  break  a  pint 
mug  with  one  hand,  creaming  it  between  his 
fingers.  Then  there  was  Jago  the  Preventive 
man,  light  but  wiry,  and  a  very  tricky  wrestler: 
"  a  proper  angle-twitch  of  a  man,"  said  one  of  the 
company;  "stank*  'pon  both  ends  of  'en,  he'll 

*  Stank  =  tread. 

[84] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

rise  up  in  the  middle  and  laugh  at  'ee."  So  they 
picked  Jago  for  boat-oar.  For  No.  5,  after  a 
little  dispute,  they  settled  on  Tippet  Harry,  a 
boat-builder  working  in  Runnell's  yard,  by  reason 
that  he'd  often  pulled  behind  Ede  in  the  double- 
sculling,  and  might  be  trusted  to  set  good  time  to 
the  bow-side.  Nos.  2  and  3  were  not  so  easily 
settled,  and  they  discussed  and  put  aside  half  a 
score  before  offering  one  of  the  places  to  a  long- 
legged  youngster  whose  name  I  can't  properly 
give  you:  he  was  always  called  Freckly-Faced 
Joe,  and  worked  as  a  saddler's  apprentice.  In 
the  end  he  rowed  2:  but  No.  3  they  left  vacant 
for  the  time,  while  they  looked  around  for  likely 
candidates. 

Landlord  Oke  made  no  mistake  when  he 
promised  that  Sally  meant  business.  Two  days 
later  she  popped  her  head  in  at  his  bar-parlour 
— 'twas  in  the  slack  hours  of  the  afternoon,  and 
he  happened  to  be  sitting  there  all  by  himself,  tip- 
ping a  sheaf  of  churchwarden  clays  with  sealing- 
wax —  and  says  she  — 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  menkind?" 

"Restin,"'  says  Oke  with  a  grin.  "I  don't 
own  'em,  missus;  but,  from  what  I  can  hear, 
they're  restin'  and  recoverin'  their  strength." 

"I've  brought  you  the  stakes  from  our  side," 

[85] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

says  Sally,  and  down  she  slaps  a  five-pound  note 
and  a  sovereign  upon  the  table. 

"Take  'em  up,  missus  —  take  'em  up.  I  don't 
feel  equal  to  the  responsibility.  This  here's  a 
public  challenge,  hey?" 

"The  publicker  the  better." 

"Then  we'll  go  to  the  Mayor  about  it  and  ask 
his  Worship  to  hold  the  stakes."  Oke  was 
chuckling  to  himself  all  this  while,  the  reason 
being  that  he'd  managed  to  bespeak  the  loan  of  a 
six-oared  galley  belonging  to  the  Water-Guard, 
and,  boat  for  boat,  he  made  no  doubt  she  could 
show  her  heels  to  the  Indefatigable  Woman.  He 
unlocked  his  strong-box,  took  out  and  pocketed  a 
bag  of  money,  and  reached  his  hat  off  its  peg. 
"I  suppose  'twouldn't  do  to  offer  you  my  arm  ?" 
says  he. 

"  Folks  would  talk,  Mr.  Oke  —  thanking  you 
all  the  same." 

So  out  they  went,  and  down  the  street  side  by 
side,  and  knocked  at  the  Mayor's  door.  The 
Mayor  was  taking  a  nap  in  his  back-parlour  with 
a  handkerchief  over  his  face.  He  had  left  busi- 
ness soon  after  burying  his  wife,  who  had  kept 
him  hard  at  work  at  the  cheesemongering,  and 
now  he  could  sleep  when  he  chose.  But  he  woke 
up  very  politely  to  attend  to  his  visitors'  business. 
[86] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

"Yes,  for  sure,  I'll  hold  the  stakes,"  said  he: 
"and  I'll  see  it  put  in  big  print  on  the  Regatta- 
bill.  It  ought  to  attract  a  lot  of  visitors.  But 
lor'  bless  you,  Mr.  Oke!  —  if  you  win,  it'll  do 
me  no  good.  She"  —  meaning  his  wife  —  "has 
gone  to  a  land  where  I'll  never  be  able  to  crow 
over  her." 

"Your  Worship  makes  sure,  I  see,  that  we 
women  are  going  to  beat  ?"  put  in  Sal. 

"Tut-tut!"  says  the  Mayor.  "They've  booked 
Seth  Ede  for  stroke."  And  with  that  he  goes 
very  red  in  the  gills  and  turns  to  Landlord  Oke. 
"But  perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  have  mentioned 
that?"  says  he. 

"Well,"  says  Sal,  "you've  a-let  the  cat  out  of 
the  bag,  and  I  see  that  all  you  men  in  the  town 
are  in  league.  But  a  challenge  is  a  challenge, 
and  I  mustn't  go  back  on  it."  Indeed,  in  her 
secret  heart  she  was  cheerful,  knowing  the  worst, 
and  considering  it  none  so  bad :  and  after  higgling 
a  bit,  just  to  deceive  him,  she  took  pretty  well  all 
the  conditions  of  the  race  as  Oke  laid  'em  down. 
A  tearing  long  course  it  was  to  be,  too,  and  pretty 
close  on  five  miles:  start  from  nearabouts  where 
the  training-ship  lays  now,  down  to  a  mark-boat 
somewheres  off  Torpoint,  back,  and  finish  off 
Saltash  Quay. 

[87] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

"My  dears,"  she  said  to  her  mates  later  on, 
"I  don't  mind  telling  you  I  was  all  of  a  twitter, 
first-along,  wondering  what  card  that  man  Oke 
was  holding  back  —  he  looked  so  sly  and  so  sure 
of  hisself.  But  if  he've  no  better  card  to  play 
than  Seth  Ede,  we  can  sleep  easy." 

"Seth  Ede's  a  powerful  strong  oar,"  Bess 
Rablin  objected. 

"  Was,  you  mean.  He've  a-drunk  too  much 
beer  these  four  years  past  to  last  over  a  five-mile 
course;  let  be  that  never  was  his  distance.  And 
here's  another  thing:  they've  picked  Tremenjous 
Hosken  for  one  th'art." 

"And  he's  as  strong  as  a  bullock." 

"I  dessay:  but  Seth  Ede  pulls  thirty-eight  or 
thirty-nine  to  the  minute  all  the  time  he's  racing 
—  never  a  stroke  under.  I've  watched  him  a 
score  o'  times.  If  you  envy  Hosken  his  inside 
after  two  miles  o'  that,  you  must  be  like  Pomery's 
pig  —  in  love  with  pain.  They've  hired  or 
borrowed  the  Preventive  boat,  I'm  told;  and  it's 
the  best  they  could  do.  She's  new,  and  she  looks 
pretty.  She'll  drag  aft  if  they  put  their  light 
weights  in  the  bows:  still,  she's  a  good  boat.  I'm 
not  afeared  of  her,  though.  From  all  I  can  hear, 
the  Woman  was  known  for  speed  in  her  time, 
all  through  the  fleet.  You  can  feel  she's  fast, 
[88] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

and  see  it,  if  you've  half  an  eye:  and  the  way  she 
travels  between  the  strokes  is  a  treat.  The 
Mounseers  can  build  boats.  But  oh,  my  dears, 
you'll  have  to  pull  and  stay  the  course,  or  in 
Saltash  the  women  take  second  place  for  ever!" 

"Shan't  be  worse  off  than  other  women,  even 
if  that  happens,"  said  Rebecca  Tucker,  that  was 
but  a  year  married  and  more  than  half  in  love 
with  her  man.  Sally  had  been  in  two  minds 
about  promoting  Rebecca  to  the  bow-oar  in  place 
of  Ann  Pengelly,  that  had  been  clipping  the  stroke 
short  in  practice:  but  after  that  speech  she  never 
gave  the  woman  another  thought. 

Next  evening  the  men  brought  out  their  opposi- 
tion boat  —  she  was  called  the  Nonpareil  —  and 
tried  a  spin  in  her.  They  had  found  a  man  for 
No.  3  oar  —  another  of  the  Water-Guard,  by 
name  Mick  Guppy  and  by  nation  Irish,  which 
Sal  swore  to  be  unfair.  She  didn't  lodge  any 
complaint,  however:  and  when  her  mates  called 
out  that  'twas  taking  a  mean  advantage,  all  she'd 
say  was:  "Saltash  is  Saltash,  my  dears;  and  I 
won't  go  to  maintain  that  a  Saltash  crew  is  any- 
ways improved  by  a  chap  from  Dundalk." 

So  no  protest  was  entered.  I  needn't  tell  you 
that,  by  this  time,  news  of  the  great  race  had 
spread  to  Plymouth,  and  north  away  to  Callington 

[89] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

and  all  the  country  round.  Crowds  came  out 
every  evening  to  watch  the  two  boats  at  their 
practising;  and  sometimes,  as  they  passed  one 
another,  Seth  Ede,  who  had  the  reputation  for  a 
wag,  would  call  out  to  Sal  and  offer  her  the  odds 
by  way  of  chaff.  Sal  never  answered.  The 
woman  was  in  deadly  earnest,  and  moreover,  I 
daresay,  a  bit  timmersome,  now  that  the  whole 
Borough  had  its  eyes  on  her,  and  defeat  meant 
disgrace. 

She  never  showed  a  sign  of  any  doubt,  though; 
and  when  the  great  day  came,  she  surpassed  her- 
self by  the  way  she  dressed.  I  daresay  you've 
noticed  that  when  women  take  up  a  man's  job 
they're  inclined  to  overdo  it;  and  when  Sal  came 
down  that  day  with  a  round  tarpaulin-hat  stuck 
on  the  back  of  her  head,  and  her  hair  plaited  in  a 
queue  like  a  Jack  Tar's,  her  spiteful  little  hus- 
band fairly  danced. 

"'Tis  onwomanly,"  said  he.  "Go  upstairs  and 
take  it  off!" 

"  Ch't,"  said  she,  "  if  you're  so  much  upset  by  a 
tarpaulin-hat,  you've  had  a  narra  escape;  for  'tis 
nothing  to  the  costume  I'd  a  mind  to  wear  —  and 
I'd  a  mind  to  make  you  measure  the  whole  crew 
for  it." 

And  as  it  was,  I'm  told,  half  the  sightseers  that 

[90] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

poured  into  Saltash  that  day  in  their  hundreds 
couldn't  tell  the  women's  crew  from  the  men's 
by  their  looks  or  their  dress.  And  these  be  the 
names  and  weights,  more  or  less  — 

The  Indefatigable  Woman:  Bow,  Ann  Pengelly, 
something  under  eleven  stone;  No.  2,  Thomasine 
Oliver,  ditto;  No.  3,  Mary  Kitty  Climo,  eleven 
and  a  half;  No.  4,  Long  Eliza,  thirteen  and  over, 
a  woman  very  heavy  in  the  bone;  No.  5,  Bess 
Rablin,  twelve  stone,  most  of  it  in  the  ribs  and 
shoulders;  Stroke,  Sarah  Hancock,  twelve  stone 
four;  Coxswain,  Ann  Pengelly's  fourth  daughter 
Wilhelmina,  weight  about  six  stone.  The  Inde- 
fatigable Woman  carried  a  small  distaff  in  the 
bows,  and  her  crew  wore  blue  jerseys  and  yellow 
handkerchiefs. 

The  Nonpareil:  Bow,  T.  Jago,  ten  stone  and  a 
little  over;  No.  2,  Freckly-faced  Joe,  twelve 
stone;  No.  3,  M.  Guppy,  twelve  stone  and  a  half; 
No.  4,  Tremenjous  Hosken,  eighteen  stone  ten; 
No.  5,  Tippet  Harry,  twelve  stone  eight;  Stroke, 
Seth  Ede,  eleven  six.  And  I  don't  know  who  the 
boy  was  that  steered.  The  Nonpareil  carried  a 
red,  white,  and  blue  flag,  and  her  crew  wore 
striped  jerseys,  white  and  blue. 

They  were  started  by  pistol;  and  Seth  Ede, 
jumping  off  with  a  stroke  of  forty  to  the  minute, 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

went  ahead  at  once.  In  less  than  twenty  strokes 
he  was  clear,  the  Nonpareil  lifting  forward  in 
great  heaves  that  made  the  spectators  tell  each 
other  that  though  'twas  no  race  they  had  seen 
something  for  their  money.  They  didn't  see 
how  sweetly  the  other  boat  held  her  way  between 
the  strokes,  nor  note  that  Sally  had  started  at  a 
quiet  thirty-four,  the  whole  crew  reaching  well 
out  and  keeping  their  blades  covered  to  the  finish 
—  coming  down  to  the  stroke  steadily,  too, 
though  a  stifHsh  breeze  was  with  them  as  well  as 
the  tide. 

I  suppose  the  longest  lead  held  by  the  Non- 
pareil during  the  race  was  a  good  forty  yards. 
She  must  have  won  this  within  four  minutes  of 
starting,  and  for  half  a  mile  or  so  she  kept  it. 
Having  so  much  in  hand,  Ede  slowed  down  — 
for  flesh  and  blood  couldn't  keep  up  such  a  rate 
of  striking  over  the  whole  course  —  and  at  once 
he  found  out  his  mistake.  The  big  man  Hosken, 
who  had  been  pulling  with  his  arms  only,  and 
pulling  like  a  giant,  didn't  understand  swinging 
out;  tried  it,  and  was  late  on  stroke  every  time. 
This  flurried  Ede,  who  was  always  inclined  to 
hurry  the  pace,  and  he  dropped  slower  yet  — 
dropped  to  thirty-five,  maybe,  a  rate  at  which  he 
did  himself  no  justice,  bucketting  forward  fast, 

[92] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

and  waiting  over  the  beginning  till  he'd  missed 
it.  In  discontent  with  himself  he  quickened 
again;  but  now  the  oars  behind  him  were  like  a 
peal  of  bells.  By  sheer  strength  they  forced  the 
boat  along  somehow,  and  with  the  tide  under  her 
she  travelled.  But  the  Indefatigable  Woman  by 
this  time  was  creeping  up. 

They  say  that  Sally  rowed  that  race  at  thirty, 
four  from  the  start  to  within  fifty  yards  of  the 
finish;  rowed  it  minute  after  minute  without 
once  quickening  or  once  dropping  a  stroke. 
Folks  along  shore  timed  her  with  their  watches. 
If  that's  the  truth,  'twas  a  marvellous  feat,  and 
the  woman  accounted  for  it  afterwards  by  declar- 
ing that  all  the  way  she  scarcely  thought  for  one 
second  of  the  other  boat,  but  set  her  stroke  to  a 
kind  of  tune  in  her  head,  saying  the  same  verse 
over  and  over  — 

But  she  was  took  out  of  bis  side, 
His  equal  and  partner  to  be  : 
Though  they  be  yuntted  in  one, 
Still  the  man  is  the  top  of  the  tree  ! 

With  my  jol-de-rol,  tooral-i-lay  —  We'll  see  about  that ! 

The  Indefatigable  Woman  turned  the  mark  not 
more  than  four  lengths  astern.  They  had  wind 
and  tide  against  them  now,  and  with  her  crew 
swinging  out  slow  and  steady,  pulling  the  stroke 

[93] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

clean  through  with  a  hard  finish,  she  went  up 
hand-over-fist.  The  blades  of  the  Nonpareil 
were  knocking  up  water  like  a  moorhen.  Tre- 
menjous  Hosken  had  fallen  to  groaning  between 
the  strokes,  and  I  believe  that  from  the  mark- 
boat  homeward  he  was  no  better  than  a  passenger 
—  an  eighteen-stone  passenger,  mind  you.  The 
only  man  to  keep  it  lively  was  little  Jago  at  bow, 
and  Seth  Ede  —  to  do  him  justice  —  pulled  a 
grand  race  for  pluck.  He  might  have  spared 
himself,  though.  Another  hundred  yards  settled 
it:  the  Indefatigable  Woman  made  her  overlap 
and  went  by  like  a  snake,  and  the  Irishman 
pulled  in  his  oar  and  said  — 

"Well,  Heaven  bless  the  leddies,  anyway!" 
Seth  Ede  turned  round  and  swore  at  him 
vicious-like,  and  he  fell  to  rowing  again:  but  the 
whole  thing  had  become  a  procession.  "Eyes  in 
the  boat!"  commanded  Sal,  pulling  her  crew 
together  as  they  caught  sight  of  their  rivals  for 
the  first  time  and,  for  a  stroke  or  two,  let  the  time 
get  ragged.  She  couldn't  help  a  lift  in  her  voice, 
though,  any  more  than  she  could  help  winding 
up  with  a  flourish  as  they  drew  level  with  Saltash 
town,  a  good  hundred  yards  ahead,  and  heard 
the  band  playing  and  the  voices  cheering.  "  Look 
out  for  the  quicken!"  -  and  up  went  a  great  roar 

[94] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

as  the  women  behind  her  picked  the  quicken  up 
and  rattled  past  the  Quay  and  the  winning-gun 
at  forty  to  the  minute! 

They  had  just  strength  enough  left  to  toss  oars: 
and  then  they  leaned  forward  with  their  heads 
between  their  arms,  panting  and  gasping  out, 
"Well  rowed,  Sal!"  "Oh  — oh  — well  rowed 
all!"  and  letting  the  delight  run  out  of  them  in 
little  sobs  of  laughter.  The  crowd  ashore,  too, 
was  laughing  and  shouting  itself  hoarse.  I'm 
sorry  to  say  a  few  of  them  jeered  at  the  Nonpareil 
as  she  crawled  home:  but,  on  the  whole,  the  men 
of  Saltash  took  their  beating  handsome. 

This  don't  include  Sal's  husband,  though. 
Landlord  Oke  was  one  of  the  first  to  shake  her 
by  the  hand  as  she  landed,  and  the  Mayor  turned 
over  the  stakes  to  her  there  and  then  with  a  neat 
little  speech.  But  Tailor  Hancock  went  back 
home  with  all  kinds  of  ugliness  and  uncharitable- 
ness  working  in  his  little  heart.  He  cursed 
Regatta  Day  for  an  interruption  to  trade,  and 
Saltash  for  a  town  given  up  to  idleness  and  folly. 
A  man's  business  in  this  world  was  to  toil  for  his 
living  in  the  sweat  of  his  brow;  and  so,  half-an- 
hour  later,  he  told  his  wife. 

The  crowd  had  brought  her  along  to  her  house- 
door:  and  there  she  left  'em  with  a  word  or  two 

[95] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

of  thanks,  and  went  in  very  quiet.  Her  victory 
had  uplifted  her,  of  course;  but  she  knew  that  her 
man  would  be  sore  in  his  feelings,  and  she  meant 
to  let  him  down  gently.  She'd  have  done  it,  too, 
if  he'd  met  her  in  the  ordinary  way:  but  when, 
after  searching  the  house,  she  looked  into  the 
little  back  workshop  and  spied  him  seated  on  the 
bench  there,  cross-legged  and  solemn  as  an  idol, 
stitching  away  at  a  waistcoat,  she  couldn't  hold 
back  a  grin. 

"Why,  whatever's  the  matter  with  you?"  she 
asked. 

"Work,"  says  he,  in  a  hollow  voice.  "Work 
is  the  matter.  I  can't  see  a  house  —  and  one  that 
used  to  be  a  happy  home  —  go  to  rack  and  ruin 
without  some  effort  to  prevent  it." 

"I  wouldn't  begin  on  Regatta  Day,  if  I  was 
you,"  says  Sal  cheerfully.  "Has  old  Smithers 
been  inquiring  again  about  that  waistcoat?" 

"He  have  not." 

"Then  he's  a  patient  man:  for  to  my  knowledge 
this  is  the  third  week  you've  been  putting  him  off 
with  excuses." 

"I  thank  the  Lord,"  says  her  husband  piously, 
"that  more  work  gets  put  on  me  than  I  can  keep 
pace  with.  And  well  it  is,  when  a  man's  wife 
takes  to  wagering  and  betting  and  pulling  in  low 

[96] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

boat-races  to  the  disgrace  of  her  sex.  Someone 
must  keep  the  roof  over  our  heads:  but  the  end 
may  come  sooner  than  you  expect,"  says  he,  and 
winds  up  with  a  tolerable  imitation  of  a  hacking 
cough. 

"I  took  three  pairs  of  soles  and  a  brill  in  the 
trammel  this  very  morning;  and  if  you've  put  a 
dozen  stitches  in  that  old  waistcoat,  'tis  as  much 
as  ever!  I  can  see  in  your  eye  that  you  know  all 
about  the  race;  and  I  can  tell  from  the  state  of 
your  back  that  you  watched  it  from  the  Quay, 
and  turned  into  the  Sailor's  Return  for  a  drink. 
Hockaday  got  taken  in  over  that  blue-wash  for 
his  walls:  it  comes  off  as  soon  as  you  rub  against 
it." 

"I'll  trouble  you  not  to  spy  upon  my  actions, 
Madam,"  says  he. 

"Man  alive,  /  don't  mind  your  taking  a  glass 
now  and  then  in  reason  —  specially  on  Regatta 
Day!  And  as  for  the  Sailor's  Return,  'tis  a 
respectable  house.  I  hope  so,  anyhow,  for  we've 
ordered  supper  there  to-night." 

"  Supper!  You've  ordered  supper  at  the  Sailor's 
Return?" 

Sal  nodded.  "Just  to  celebrate  the  occasion. 
We  thought,  first-along,  of  the  Green  Dragon: 
but  the  Dragon's  too  grand  a  place  for  ease,  and 

[97] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

Bess  allowed  'twould  look  like  showing  off.  She 
voted  for  cosiness:  so  the  Sailor's  Return  it  is, 
with  roast  ducks  and  a  boiled  leg  of  mutton  and 
plain  gin-and-water." 

"Settin'  yourselves  up  to  be  men,  I  s'pose?" 
he  sneered. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  answered  Sal.  "There'll 
be  no  speeches." 

She  went  off  to  the  kitchen,  put  on  the  kettle, 
and  made  him  a  dish  of  tea.  In  an  ordinary 
way  she'd  have  paid  no  heed  to  his  tantrums: 
but  just  now  she  felt  very  kindly  disposed  t'wards 
everybody,  and  really  wished  to  chat  over  the 
race  with  him  —  treating  it  as  a  joke  now  that 
her  credit  was  saved,  and  never  offering  to  crow 
over  him.  But  the  more  she  fenced  about  to  be 
agreeable  the  more  he  stitched  and  sulked. 

"Well,  I  can't  miss  all  the  fun,"  said  she  at 
last:  and  so,  having  laid  supper  for  him,  and  put 
the  jug  where  he  could  find  it  and  draw  his  cider, 
she  clapped  on  her  hat  and  strolled  out. 

He  heard  her  shut-to  the  front  door,  and  still 
he  went  on  stitching.  When  the  dusk  began  to 
fall  he  lit  a  candle,  fetched  himself  a  jugful  of 
cider,  and  went  back  to  his  work.  For  all  the 
notice  Sal  was  ever  likely  to  take  of  his  perversity, 
he  might  just  as  well  have  stepped  out  into  the 

[98] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

streets  and  enjoyed  himself:  but  he  was  wrought 
up  into  that  mood  in  which  a  man  will  hurt  him- 
self for  the  sake  of  having  a  grievance.  All  the 
while  he  stitched  he  kept  thinking,  "Look  at  me 
here,  galling  my  fingers  to  the  bone,  and  that 
careless  fly-by-night  wife  o'  mine  carousin'  and 
gallivantin'  down  at  the  Sailor's  Return!  Maybe 
she'll  be  sorry  for  it  when  I'm  dead  and  gone; 
but  at  present  if  there's  an  injured,  misunder- 
stood poor  mortal  in  Saltash  Town,  I'm  that 
man."  So  he  went  on,  until  by-and-by,  above 
the  noise  of  the  drum  and  cymbals  outside  the 
penny  theatre,  and  the  hurdy-gurdies,  and  the 
showmen  bawling  down  by  the  waterside,  he 
heard  voices  yelling  and  a  rush  of  folks  running 
down  the  street  past  his  door.  He  knew  they  had 
been  baiting  a  bull  in  a  field  at  the  head  of  the 
town,  and,  the  thought  coming  into  his  head  that 
the  animal  must  have  broken  loose,  he  hopped 
off  his  bench,  ran  fore  to  the  front  door,  and 
peeked  his  head  out  cautious-like. 

What  does  he  see  coming  down  the  street  in 
the  dusk  but  half-a-dozen  sailor-men  with  an 
officer  in  charge!  Of  course  he  knew  the  mean- 
ing of  it  at  once.  'Twas  a  press-gang  off  one  of 
the  ships  in  Hamoaze  or  the  Sound,  that  was 
choosing  Regatta  Night  to  raid  the  streets  and 

[99] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

had  landed  at  the  back  of  the  town  and  climbed 
over  the  hill  to  take  the  crowds  by  surprise. 
They'd  made  but  a  poor  fist  of  this,  by  reason  of 
the  officer  letting  his  gang  get  out  of  hand  at  the 
start;  and  by  their  gait  'twas  pretty  plain  they 
had  collared  a  plenty  of  liquor  up  the  street. 
But  while  Hancock  peeped  out,  taking  stock  of 
them,  a  nasty  monkey-notion  crept  into  his  head, 
and  took  hold  of  all  his  spiteful  little  nature;  and 
says  he,  pushing  the  door  a  bit  wider  as  the  small 
officer  —  he  was  little  taller  than  a  midshipman 
—  came  swearing  by  — 

"Beg  your  pardon,  Sir!" 

"You'd  best  take  in  your  head  and  close  the 
door  upon  it,"  snaps  the  little  officer.  "These 
fools  o'  mine  have  got  their  shirts  out,  and  are 
liable  to  make  mistakes  to-night." 

"What,  me?  —  a  poor  tailor  with  a  hackin' 
cough!"  But  to  himself:  "So  much  the  better," 
he  says,  and  up  he  speaks  again.  "Beggin'  your 
pardon  humbly,  commander;  but  I  might  put 
you  in  the  way  of  the  prettiest  haul.  There's  a 
gang  of  chaps  enjoyin'  theirselves  down  at  the 
Sailor's  Return,  off  the  Quay,  and  not  a  *  protec- 
tion' among  them.  Fine  lusty  fellows,  too! 
They  might  give  your  men  a  bit  of  trouble  to 
start  with  - 

[100] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

"Why  are  you  telling  me  this?"  the  officer  in- 
terrupts, suspicious-like. 

"That's  my  affair,"  says  Hancock  boldly,  seeing 
that  he  nibbled.  "Put  it  down  to  love  o'  my 
country,  if  you  like;  and  take  my  advice  or  leave 
it,  just  as  you  please.  I'm  not  asking  for  money, 
so  you  won't  be  any  the  poorer." 

"  Off  the  Quay,  did  you  say  ?  Has  the  house  a 
quay-door?" 

"  It  has :  but  you  needn't  to  trouble  about  that. 
They  can't  escape  that  way,  I  promise  you,  having 
no  boat  alongside." 

The  little  officer  turned  and  whispered  for  a 
while  with  two  of  the  soberest  of  his  gang:  and 
presently  these  whispered  to  two  more,  and  the 
four  of  them  marched  away  up  the  hill. 

"'HANCOCK  —  TAILOR,'"  reads  out  the 
officer  aloud,  stepping  back  into  the  roadway  and 
peering  up  at  the  shop-front.  "Very  well,  my 
man,  you'll  hear  from  us  again " 

"I'm  not  askin'  for  any  reward,  Sir." 

"So  you've  said:  and  I  was  about  to  say  that, 
if  this  turns  out  to  be  a  trick,  you'll  hear  from  us 
again,  and  in  a  way  you'll  be  sorry  for.  And 
now,  once  more,  take  your  ugly  head  inside.  'Tis 
my  duty  to  act  on  information,  but  I  don't  love 
informers." 

[101] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

For  the  moment  the  threat  made  the  tailor  un- 
comfortable: but  he  felt  pretty  sure  the  sailors, 
when  they  discovered  the  trick,  wouldn't  be  able 
to  do  him  much  harm.  The  laugh  of  the  whole 
town  would  be  against  them:  and  on  Regatta 
Night  the  press  —  unpopular  enough  at  the  best 
of  times  —  would  gulp  down  the  joke  and  make 
the  best  of  it.  He  went  back  to  his  bench;  but 
on  second  thoughts  not  to  his  work.  'Twould 
be  on  the  safe  side,  anyway,  to  be  not  at  home  for 
an  hour  or  two,  in  case  the  sailors  came  back  to 
cry  quits:  playing  the  lonely  martyr,  too,  wasn't 
much  fun  with  this  mischief  working  inside  of 
him  and  swelling  his  lungs  like  barm.*  He 
took  a  bite  of  bread  and  a  sup  of  cider,  blew  out 
the  candle,  let  himself  forth  into  the  street  after  a 
glance  to  make  sure  that  all  was  clear,  and  headed 
for  the  Fish  and  Anchor. 

He  found  the  bar-room  crowded,  but  not  with 
the  usual  Regatta  Night  throng  of  all-sorts. 
The  drinkers  assembled  were  either  burgesses 
like  himself  or  waterside  men  with  protection- 
papers  in  their  pockets:  for  news  of  the  press- 
gang  had  run  through  the  town  like  wildfire,  and 
the  company  had  given  over  discussing  the  race 
of  the  day  and  taken  up  with  this  new  subject. 

*  Barm  =  yeast. 
[102] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

Among  the  protected  men  his  eye  lit  on  Treleaven 
the  hoveller,  husband  to  Long  Eliza,  and  Caius 
Pengelly,  husband  to  Ann,  that  had  pulled  bow 
in  the  race.  He  winked  to  them  mighty  cun- 
ning. The  pair  of  'em  seemed  dreadfully  cast 
down,  and  he  knew  a  word  to  put  them  in  heart 
again. 

"Terrible  blow  for  us,  mates,  this  woman's 
mutiny!"  says  he,  dropping  into  a  chair  careless- 
like,  pulling  out  a  short  pipe,  and  speaking  high 
to  draw  the  company's  attention. 

"Oh,  stow  it!"  says  Caius  Pengelly,  very  sour. 
"We'd  found  suthin'  else  to  talk  about;  and  if 
the  women  have  the  laugh  of  us  to-day,  who's 
responsible,  after  all  ?  Why,  you  —  you,  with 
your  darned  silly  song  about  Adam  and  Eve.  If 
you  hadn't  provoked  your  wife,  this  here  wouldn't 
ha'  happened." 

"  Indeed  ? "  says  the  monkey-fellow,  crossing 
his  legs  and  puffing.  "  So  you've  found  something 
better  to  talk  about  ?  What's  that,  I'd  like  to 
know?" 

"Why,  there's  a  press-gang  out,"  says  Tre- 
leaven. "But  there!  a  fellow  with  your  shaped 
legs  don't  take  no  interest  in  press-gangs,  I 
reckon." 

"  Ah,  to  be  sure,"  says  the  little  man  —  but  he 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

winced  and  uncrossed  his  legs  all  the  same,  feel- 
ing sorry  he'd  made  'em  so  conspicuous  —  "  ah, 
to  be  sure,  a  press-gang!  I  met  'em;  but,  as  it 
happens,  that's  no  change  of  subject." 

"Us  don't  feel  in  no  mood  to  stomach  your  fun 
to-night,  Hancock;  and  so  I  warn  'ee,"  put  in 
Pengelly,  who  had  been  drinking  more  than  usual 
and  spoke  thick.  "  If  you've  a  meaning  up  your 
sleeve,  you'd  best  shake  it  out." 

Hancock  chuckled.  "You  fellows  have  no 
invention,"  he  said;  "no  resource  at  all,  as  I  may 
call  it.  You  stake  on  this  race,  and,  when  the 
women  beat  you,  you  lie  down  and  squeal. 
Well,  you  may  thank  me  that  I'm  built  different: 
I  bide  my  time,  but  when  the  clock  strikes  I  strike 
with  it.  I  never  did  approve  of  women  dressing 
man-fashion :  but  what's  the  use  of  making  a  row- 
in  the  house  ?  'The  time  is  bound  to  come,'  said 
I  to  myself;  and  come  it  has.  If  you  want  a  good 
story  cut  short,  I  met  the  press-gang  just  now  and 
turned  'em  on  to  raid  the  Sailor's  Return:  and  if 
by  to-morrow  the  women  down  there  have  any 
crow  over  us,  then  I'm  a  Dutchman,  that's  all!" 

"Bejimbers,  Hancock,"  says  Treleaven,  stand- 
ing up  and  looking  uneasy,  "you  carry  it  far,  I 
must  say!" 

"Far?  A  jolly  good  joke,  /  should  call  it," 
[104] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

answers  Hancock,  making  bold  to  cross  his  legs 
again. 

And  with  that  there  comes  a  voice  crying 
pillaloo  in  the  passage  outside;  and,  without  so 
much  as  a  knock,  a  woman  runs  in  with  a  face 
like  a  sheet  —  Sam  Hockaday's  wife,  from  the 
Sailor's  Return. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Oke  —  Mr.  Oke,  whatever  is  to  be 
done!  The  press  has  collared  Sally  Hancock 
and  all  her  gang!  Some  they've  kilt,  and  wounded 
others,  and  all  they've  a-bound  and  carried  off 
and  shipped  at  the  quay-door.  Oh,  Mr.  Oke, 
our  house  is  ruined  for  ever!" 

The  men  gazed  at  her  with  their  mouths  open. 
Hancock  found  his  legs  somehow;  but  they  shook 
under  him,  and  all  of  a  sudden  he  felt  himself 
turning  white  and  sick. 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me "  he  began. 

But  Pengelly  rounded  on  him  and  took  him  by 
the  ear  so  that  he  squeaked.  "Where's  my  wife, 
you  miserable  joker,  you?"  demanded  Pengelly. 

"They  c-can't  be  in  earnest!" 

"You'll  find  that  I  am,"  said  Pengelly,  feeling 
in  his  breeches-pocket,  and  drawing  out  a  clasp- 
knife  almost  a  foot  long.  "What's  the  name  of 
the  ship?" 

"I  —  I  don't  know!     I  never  inquired!     Oh, 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

please  let  me  go,  Mr.  Pengelly!  Han't  I  got  my 
feelings,  same  as  yourself?" 

"There's  a  score  of  vessels  atween  this  and 
Cawsand,"  put  in  Treleaven,  catching  his  breath 
like  a  man  hit  in  the  wind,  "and  half-a-dozen  of 
'em  ready  to  weigh  anchor  any  moment.  There's 
naught  for  it  but  to  take  a  boat  and  give  chase." 

Someone  suggested  that  Sal's  own  boat,  the 
Indefatigable  Woman,  would  be  lying  off  Runnell's 
Yard;  and  down  to  the  waterside  they  all  ran, 
Pengelly  gripping  the  tailor  by  the  arm.  They 
found  the  gig  moored  there  on  a  frape,  dragged 
her  to  shore,  and  tumbled  in.  Half-a-dozen  men 
seized  and  shipped  the  oars:  the  tailor  crouched 
himself  in  the  stern-sheets.  Voices  from  shore 
sang  out  all  manner  of  different  advice:  but  'twas 
clear  that  no  one  knew  which  way  the  press-boat 
had  taken,  nor  to  what  ship  she  belonged. 

To  Hancock  'twas  all  like  a  sick  dream.  He 
hated  the  water;  he  had  on  his  thinnest  clothes; 
the  night  began  to  strike  damp  and  chilly,  with  a 
lop  of  tide  running  up  from  Hamoaze  and  the 
promise  of  worse  below.  Pengelly,  who  had 
elected  himself  captain,  swore  to  hail  every  ship 
he  came  across :  and  he  did  —  though  from  the 
first  he  met  with  no  encouragement.  "Ship, 
ahoy!"  he  shouted,  coming  down  with  a  rush  upon 
[106] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

the  stern-windows  of  the  first  and  calling  to  all 
to  hold  water.  "  Ahoy !  Ship ! " 

A  marine  poked  his  head  over  the  taffrail. 
"Ship  it  is,"  said  he.  "And  what  may  be  the 
matter  with  you  ?" 

"  Be  you  the  ship  that  has  walked  off  with  half- 
a-dozen  women  from  Saltash  ?" 

The  marine  went  straight  off  and  called  the 
officer  of  the  watch,  "Boat-load  of  drunk  chaps 
under  our  stern,  Sir,"  says  he,  saluting.  "Want 
to  know  if  we've  carried  off  half-a-dozen  women 
from  Saltash." 

"Empty  a  bucket  of  slops  on  'em,"  said  the 
officer  of  the  watch,  "  and  tell  'em,  with  my  com- 
pliments, that  we  haven't." 

The  marine  saluted,  hunted  up  a  slop-bucket, 
and  poured  it  over  with  the  message.  "If  you 
want  to  know  more,  try  the  guard-ship,"  said  he. 

"That's  all  very  well,  but  where  in  thunder  be 
the  guard-ship?"  said  poor  Pengelly,  scratching 
his  head. 

Everyone  knew,  but  everyone  differed  by 
something  between  a  quarter  and  half  a  mile. 
They  tried  ship  after  ship,  getting  laughter  from 
some  and  abuse  from  others.  And  now,  to  make 
matters  worse,  the  wind  chopped  and  blew  up 
from  the  sou'-west,  with  a  squall  of  rain  and  a 

[107] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

wobble  of  sea  that  tried  Hancock's  stomach  sorely. 
At  one  time  they  went  so  far  astray  in  the  dark  as 
to  hail  one  of  the  prison-hulks,  and  only  sheered 
off  when  the  sentry  challenged  and  brought  his 
musket  down  upon  the  bulwarks  with  a  rattle. 
A  little  later,  off  Torpoint,  they  fell  in  with  the 
water-police,  who  took  them  for  a  party  rowing 
home  to  Plymouth  from  the  Regatta,  and  threatened 
'em  with  the  lock-up  if  they  didn't  proceed  quiet. 
Next  they  fell  foul  of  the  guard-ship,  and  their 
palaver  fetched  the  Admiral  himself  out  upon 
the  little  balcony  in  his  nightshirt.  When  he'd 
done  talking  they  were  a  hundred  yards  off,  and 
glad  of  it. 

Well,  Sir,  they  tried  ship  after  ship,  the  blessed 
night  through,  till  hope  was  nigh  dead  in  them, 
and  their  bodies  ached  with  weariness  and  hunger. 
Long  before  they  reached  Devil's  Point  the 
tumble  had  upset  Hancock's  stomach  completely. 
He  had  lost  his  oar;  somehow  it  slipped  off  be- 
tween the  thole-pins,  and  in  his  weakness  he 
forgot  to  cry  out  that  'twas  gone.  It  drifted 
away  in  the  dark  —  the  night  all  round  was 
black  as  your  hat,  the  squalls  hiding  the  stars  - 
and  he  dropped  off  his  thwart  upon  the  bottom- 
boards.  "I'm  a  dying  man,"  he  groaned,  "and 
I  don't  care.  I  don't  care  how  soon  it  comes! 
Frog] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

'Tis  all  over  with  me,  and  I  shall  never  see  my 
dear  Sally  no  more!" 

So  they  tossed  till  day  broke  and  showed 
Drake's  Island  ahead  of  them,  and  the  whole 
Sound  running  with  a  tidy  send  of  sea  from  the 
south'ard,  grey  and  forlorn.  Some  were  for 
turning  back,  but  Pengelly  wouldn't  hear  of  it. 
"We  must  make  Cawsand  Bay,"  says  he,  "if 
it  costs  us  our  lives.  Maybe  we'll  find  half-a- 
dozen  ships  anchored  there  and  ready  for  sea." 

So  away  for  Cawsand  they  pulled,  hour  after 
hour,  Hancock  all  the  while  wanting  to  die,  and 
wondering  at  the  number  of  times  an  empty  man 
could  answer  up  to  the  call  of  the  sea. 

The  squalls  had  eased  soon  after  daybreak, 
and  the  sky  cleared  and  let  through  the  sunshine 
as  they  opened  the  bay  and  spied  two  sloops-of- 
war  and  a  frigate  riding  at  anchor  there.  Pulling 
near  with  the  little  strength  left  in  them,  they 
could  see  that  the  frigate  was  weighing  for  sea. 
She  had  one  anchor  lifted  and  the  other  chain 
shortened  in:  her  top-sails  and  topgallant  sails 
were  cast  off,  ready  to  cant  her  at  the  right  moment 
for  hauling  in.  An  officer  stood  ready  by  the 
crew  manning  the  capstan,  and  right  aft  two 
more  officers  were  pacing  back  and  forth  with 
their  hands  clasped  under  their  coat-tails. 
[109] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

"Lord!"  groaned  Pengelly,  "if  my  poor  Ann's 
aboard  of  she,  we'll  never  catch  her!"  He 
sprang  up  in  the  stern-sheets  and  hailed  with  all 
his  might. 

Small  enough  chance  had  his  voice  of  reaching 
her,  the  wind  being  dead  contrary:  and  yet  for 
the  moment  it  looked  as  if  the  two  officers  aft  had 
heard;  for  they  both  stepped  to  the  ship's  side, 
and  one  put  up  a  telescope  and  handed  it  to  the 
other.  And  still  the  crew  of  the  gig,  staring  over 
their  shoulders  while  they  pulled  weakly,  could 
see  the  men  by  the  capstan  standing  motionless 
and  waiting  for  orders. 

"  Seems  a'most  as  if  they  were  expectin'  some- 
body," says  Pengelly  with  a  sudden  hopefulness: 
and  with  that  Treleaven,  that  was  pulling  stroke, 
casts  his  eyes  over  his  right  shoulder  and  gives  a 
gasp. 

"Good  Lord,  look!"  says  he.     "The  tender!" 

And  sure  enough,  out  of  the  thick  weather  roll- 
ing up  away  over  Bovisand  they  spied  now  a 
Service  cutter  bearing  across  close-hauled,  leaning 
under  her  big  tops'l  and  knocking  up  the  water 
like  ginger-beer  with  the  stress  of  it.  When  first 
sighted  she  couldn't  have  been  much  more  than 
a  mile  distant,  and,  pull  as  they  did  with  the 
remains  of  their  strength,  she  crossed  their  bows 
[no] 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

a  good  half-mile  ahead,  taking  in  tops'l  as  she 
fetched  near  the  frigate. 

"Use  your  eyes  —  oh,  use  your  eyes!"  called 
out  Pengelly:  but  no  soul  could  they  see  on  her 
besides  two  or  three  of  the  crew  forward  and  a 
little  officer  standing  aft  beside  the  helmsman. 
Pengelly  ran  forward,  leaping  the  thwarts,  and 
fetched  the  tailor  a  rousing  kick.  "Sit  up!"  he 
ordered,  "  and  tell  us  if  that's  the  orficer  you  spoke 
to  last  night!" 

The  poor  creature  hoisted  himself  upon  his 
thwart,  looking  as  yellow  as  a  bad  egg.  "I  —  I 
think  that's  the  man,"  said  he,  straining  his  eyes, 
and  dropped  his  head  overside. 

"Pull  for  your  lives,  boys,"  shouted  Pengelly. 
And  they  did  pull,  to  the  last  man.  They  pulled 
so  that  they  reached  the  frigate  just  as  the  tender, 
having  run  up  in  the  wind  and  fallen  alongside, 
began  uncovering  hatches. 

Two  officers  were  leaning  overside  and  watch- 
ing —  and  a  couple  of  the  tender's  crew  were 
reaching  down  their  arms  into  the  hold.  They 
were  lifting  somebody  through  the  hatchway, 
and  the  body  they  lifted  clung  for  a  moment  to 
the  hatchway  coaming,  to  steady  itself. 

"Sally!"  screamed  a  voice  from  the  gig. 

The  little  officer  in  the  stern  of  the  tender  cast 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

a  glance  back  at  the  sound  and  knew  the  tailor 
at  once.  He  must  have  owned  sharp  sight,  that 
man. 

"Oh,  you've  come  for  your  money,  have  you  ?" 
says  he.  And,  looking  up  at  the  two  officers 
overhead,  he  salutes,  saying:  "We've  made  a 
tidy  haul,  Sir  —  thanks  to  that  man." 

"I  don't  want  your  money.  I  want  my  wife!" 
yelled  Hancock. 

"And  I  mine!"  yelled  Pengelly. 

"And  I  mine!"  yelled  Treleaven. 

By  this  time  the  gig  had  fallen  alongside  the 
tender,  and  the  women  in  the  tender's  hold  were 
coming  up  to  daylight,  one  by  one.  Sal  herself 
stood  watching  the  jail-delivery;  and  first  of  all 
she  blinked  a  bit,  after  the  darkness  below,  and 
next  she  let  out  a  laugh,  and  then  she  reached  up  a 
hand  and  began  unplaiting  her  pigtail. 

"Be  you  the  Captain  of  this  here  ship?"  asks 
she,  looking  up  and  addressing  herself  to  one  of 
the  officers  leaning  overside. 

"Yes,  my  man;  this  here's  the  Ranger  frigate, 
and  I'm  her  Captain.  I'm  sorry  for  you  —  it 
goes  against  my  grain  to  impress  men  in  this 
fashion:  but  the  law's  the  law,  and  we're  ready 
for  sea,  and  if  you've  any  complaints  to  make  I 
hope  you'll  cut'em  short." 
[112] 


THE    LITTLE   OFFICER    HAD    TURNED    WHITE    AS    A    SHEET 


YE  SEXES,  GIVE  EAR! 

"I  don't  know,"  says  Sal,  "that  I've  any  com- 
plaints to  make,  except  that  I  was  born  a  woman. 
That  I  went  on  to  marry  that  pea-green  tailor 
yonder  is  my  own  fault,  and  we'll  say  no  more 
about  it." 

By  this  time  all  the  women  on  the  tender  was 
following  Sal's  example  and  unshredding  their 
back-hair.  By  this  time,  too,  every  man  aboard 
the  frigate  was  gathered  at  the  bulwarks,  looking 
down  in  wonderment.  There  beneath  'em  stood 
a  joke  too  terrible  to  be  grasped  in  one  moment. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Rogers,"  says  the 
Captain  in  a  voice  cold  as  a  knife,  "but  you 
appear  to  have  made  a  mistake." 

The  little  officer  had  turned  white  as  a  sheet: 
but  he  managed  to  get  in  his  say  before  the  great 
laugh  came.  "I  have,  Sir,  to  my  sorrow,"  says 
he,  turning  viciously  on  Hancock;  "a  mistake  to 
be  cast  up  against  me  through  my  career.  But  I 
reckon,"  he  adds,  "I  leave  the  punishment  for  it 
in  good  hands."  He  glanced  at  Sally. 

"You  may  lay  to  that,  young  man!"  says  she 
heartily.  "You  may  lay  to  that  every  night 
when  you  says  your  prayers." 


["31 


CAPTAIN    WYVERN'S 
ADVENTURES 


A  PHILOSOPHICAL  man  will  go  far  before  he 
discover  a  pastime  more  grateful  or  better  sooth- 
ing to  his  mind  than  painting  in  water-colours. 
I  have  heard  angling  preached  up  for  a  better; 
and  when  I  answered  on  behalf  of  water-colours 
that  it  does  not  matter  how  ill  you  do  it,  was 
replied  to  that  the  same  holds  with  angling  if 
cheerfully  practised.  Well,  then,  at  angling  I 
make  a  cast  and  hitch  my  line  over  a  bough,  or  it 
drops  into  some  thicket,  and  thereat  how  can  a 
man  keep  tranquil?  No,  no:  I  had  liefer  stain 
paper  any  day  of  the  week. 

On  Saturday  afternoon,  the  loth  of  August, 
1644  —  a  very  fair  hot  day  —  while  I  sat  in  the 
pleasant  shady  church  of  Boconnoc,  near  by  Lord 
Mohun's  house  in  Cornwall,  copying  down  the 
writings  on  the  monuments  and  the  scutcheons  in 

o 

the  windows  in  their  right  colours,  it  came  into 

['-si 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

my  mind  to  consider  much  that  had  happened  to 
me  in  two  years:  how  that  fate  had  made  a  soldier 
of  me,  a  plain  Essex  squire;  how  that,  not  content, 
it  had  promoted  me  to  command  a  troop  in  his 
Majesty's  regiment  of  horse;  how  that  I,  who  had 
often  desired  to  visit  Cornwall  for  the  sake  of  its 
ancient  monuments,  but  had  never  thought 
(being  by  habit  lethargic)  to  make  so  far  a  journey, 
was  not  only  arrived  there,  but  had  leisure  to 
follow  my  studies  amid  the  fret  and  drilling  of  a 
great  army. 

Yet  it  was  all  very  simple.  On  the  ist  of 
August  we  had  marched  with  his  Majesty  across 
the  passes  of  the  Tamar,  the  Earl  of  Essex  giv- 
ing ground  before  us  and  daily  withdrawing  his 
forces  closer  around  Fowey;  where,  having  a  good 
harbour,  he  could  easily  fetch  his  victuals  in 
from  the  sea.  I  will  not  tell  how  little  by  little 
we  prevented  him,  and  at  last,  surprising  a  fort 
by  the  harbour's  entry,  cut  him  off  from  aid  of  his 
shipping.  All  this  was  to  come.  Meanwhile, 
though  pent  in  a  few  miles  of  ground,  he  had  a 
fair  back-door  for  his  needs.  The  campaign  was 
brought  to  a  lock,  and  for  almost  two  weeks  we 
pushed  matters  half-heartedly;  I  believe,  because 
the  King  had  hopes  of  bringing  the  enemy  to 
terms.  Many  letters  came  and  went  by  trumpet; 
[116] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

but  in  our  camp  on  the  moors  over  Boconnoc  we 
did  little  from  day  to  day  save  meet  and  picquer 
with  small  bodies  of  the  rebel  horse. 

My  duties  giving  me  leisure,  I  turned  to  recre- 
ation ;  and  Lord !  how  good  it  seemed  to  be  antiquary 
again  after  two  years  of  soldiering!  That  after- 
noon I  played  with  my  box  of  paints  as  a  child 
who  comes  home  for  his  first  holidays,  and  takes 
down  his  familiar  toys  from  the  shelf.  "Let 
others,"  said  I,  forgetting  all  the  distractions  of 
our  poor  realm  of  England,  "let  others  have  the 
making  of  history  so  I  may  keep  the  enjoying  of 
it!"  They  were  famous  scutcheons,  too,  that  I 
sat  a-copying,  the  Mohuns  having  been  Earls  of 
Somerset,  Lords  of  Dunster,  and  a  great  family  in 
their  day.  Mohun,  indeed,  had  come  with  the 
Conqueror  — 

Le  viel  William,  de  Moion 
Ont  avec  It  maint  comfagnon, 

said  the  rhyme,  as  I  remembered:  and,  behold! 
a  fair  monument  against  the  north  wall  of  the 
chancel  (where  I  began)  carried  the  royal  coat 
of  England  and  France  with  a  label,  impaling  the 
ground  or  and  engrailed  cross  sable  of  the  Mohuns 
-  this  for  a  Philippa  of  their  house  that  married 
with  Edward,  Duke  of  York,  slain  at  Agincourt: 

[II?] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

and,  beside  it,  Courtenay's  three  torteaux  and 
FitzWilliam's  three  bendlets,  Bevill  and  Brewer, 
Strange  and  Redvers,  a  coat  vert  with  three  bucks' 
heads  having  their  antlers  depressed  (which  I 
took  for  Hayre),  and  another  coat  to  set  an  an- 
tiquary thinking,  for  it  bore  azure  a  bend  or,  with  a 
label  of  three  points  gules.  "Scrope  or  Gros- 
venor,"  said  I  to  myself,  looking  up  from  my  work 
towards  the  East  windows,  where  the  same 
scutcheon  was  repeated.  "  I  wonder  which  claims 
you  in  these  parts." 

The  shield  that  bore  this  famous  device  had  it 
quartered  on  the  sinister  side  with  Courtenay  and 
Redvers;  and  impaling  these  on  the  dexter  side 
were,  quarterly:  (i)  A  space  patched  with  clear 
glass  (originally  Mohun,  no  doubt);  (2)  Vert  three 
stags'  heads  or  (? Hayre);  (3)  azure  three  bendlets 
or  (FitzWilliam);  (4)  a  device  which  again 
puzzled  me.  It  seemed  to  be  an  arm  habited  in  a 
maunch,  or  sleeve,  ermine,  holding  in  the  hand 
a  golden  flower. 

Now  while  I  painted,  an  old  man  had  been 
moving  about  the  far  end  of  the  church,  whom  I 
took  for  the  sexton.  I  had  passed  him  in  the 
churchyard  outside,  when  he  was  scything  down 
the  grass  upon  a  grave;  and  had  noted  no  more 
of  his  back  than  that  he  wore  the  clothes  of  a 
[118] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

hind  with  a  scrap  of  sacking  over  his  shoulders 
—  nor  perhaps  would  have  noted  so  much  as  this, 
had  not  his  clothing  seemed  over-warm  for  the 
time  of  year. 

But  now,  while  I  stood  conning  the  coats  in  the 
East  window,  he  drew  towards  me  and  spoke, 
stretching  forward  a  hand  timidly,  almost  touch- 
ing my  elbow. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  and  his  voice  and  face  bore 
instant  witness  together  of  gentle  birth,  "I  am 
gladly  at  your  service  if  anything  there  perplex 
you."  With  that  he  nodded  towards  the  coats- 
of-arms. 

In  a  trice  I  had  recovered  myself.  "Then  you, 
too,  have  a  taste  for  such  trifles?"  answered  I. 
"We  are  well  met,  Sir." 

He  shook  his  head,  avoiding  my  look.  You 
might  have  called  his  a  noble  face,  but  more 
than  anything  else  it  was  patient.  "I  belong  to 
these  parts,"  said  he;  "and  would  ask  a  stranger 
to  use  my  small  knowledge:  but,  for  myself,  all 
such  things  may  pass  with  me  into  oblivion,  and 
I  say  'Amen.'" 

Said  I  then,  "  Maybe  you  can  tell  me  of  that 
coat  in  the  fourth  quarter  dexter  —  the  hand 
grasping  a  gold  fleur-de-lys." 

"Willingly,"  said  he.   "That  is  another  device 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

of  the  Mohuns,  who  in  later  times  changed  it 
for  the  sable  cross  engrailed.  At  the  first  they 
bore  a  man's  hand  in  a  sleeve:  the  flower  it  grasps 
came  to  them  in  this  way:  There  was  a  certain 
Reginald  Mohun,  Lord  of  Dunster,  who  gave 
himself  entirely  to  good  works  and  founded  a 
great  abbey  at  Newenham,  on  the  Somerset 
border.  That  was  in  Henry  the  Third's  time  — 
I  think  in  twelve  hundred  and  forty-six  or,  maybe, 
fifty.  Having  seen  his  abbey  consecrated,  he 
passed  to  the  Court  of  Rome,  which  in  those 
days  was  held  at  Lyons,  to  have  his  charters  con- 
firmed, and  he  happened  there  in  Lent,  when  the 
Pope's  custom  was,  on  a  day  after  hearing  Laetare 
Jerusalem,  to  give  a  rose  or  flower  of  gold  to  the 
most  honourable  man  then  to  be  found  at  his 
court.  They  made  inquiry  that  year  and  found 
the  most  honourable  to  be  this  Reginald  Mohun, 
of  whom  the  Pope  asked  what  rank  he  bore  in 
England.  Mohun  answered,  'a  plain  Knight 
bachelor/  'Fair  son,'  said  the  Pope,  *  hardly  can 
I  give  you  then  this  flower,  which  has  never  been 
given  to  one  below  a  King  or  a  Duke,  or,  at  least, 
an  Earl;  therefore  we  will  that  you  shall  be  Earl 
of  Este*  —  which,  as  you  know,  is  Somerset. 
Mohun  answered,  'Holy  Father,  I  have  not 
wherewithal  to  maintain  that  title.'  So  the  Pope 
[120] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

gave  him  two  hundred  marks  a  year  out  of  the 
Peter's  pence;  and  so  the  Mohuns  added  golden 
flowers  to  their  arms." 

"I  thank  you,  Sir,"  said  I.  "But  whose  is  this 
other  noble  coat  of  azure  with  the  bend  or?  Did 
Grosvenor  ever  wed  in  these  parts  ?  Or  Scrope  ?" 

"Neither,"  said  he.     "That  coat  is  mine." 

"Yours  ?"  I  cried,  surprised  out  of  good  man- 
ners. "  But  this,  Sir,  is  the  very  coat  over  which 
Scrope  and  Grosvenor  contended." 

"Any  are  welcome  to  it  now,"  he  answered. 
"But  it  is  Carminowe,  and  I  am  Carminowe." 

"  I  ought  to  have  known  of  a  third  claimant," 
said  I,  musing.  "I  have  indeed  heard  of  Car- 
minowe: but  I  had  thought  the  family  to  be  long 
since  perished." 

He  drew  back  a  little  and  scanned  me.  "Finis 
rerum"  said  he  quietly.  "It  comes  to  all;  but 
sometimes  it  lingers,  and  —  as  with  me  —  lingers 
overlong.  I  believe,  Sir,  that  you  are  a  Captain 
in  his  Majesty's  Troop,  and  will  have  seen  your 
share  of  fighting  and  of  life  in  camp.  Your 
present  occupation  proves  you  to  be  a  contem- 
plative man.  Will  you  answer  if  I  put  to  you  a 
question  or  two?" 

"Willingly,"  said  I. 

"You  are  unmarried  ?" 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

"lam." 

"And  you  volunteered  for  the  King's  service 
in  a  hot-fit  of  loyalty;  or  maybe  in  a  hot-fit  of 
indignation  at  the  perils  threatening  him,  or 
against  the  insolence  of  Parliament  ?  You  had 
come  to  an  age  when  with  cooling  judgment 
these  fits  grow  rare,  yet  have  not  quite  given 
over  their  patient  to  the  calm  of  middle  life.  - 
You  will  tell  me  if  I  guess  amiss?" 

"But  on  the  contrary,  Sir,"  said  I;  "you  have 
read  me  correctly.  'Twas  in  a  passion  of  loyalty 
that  I  took  up  arms." 

"And  in  the  quest  of  it,"  he  went  on,  "you 
fancied  that  all  the  currents  of  your  nature  had 
been  swept  into  a  fresh  channel;  that  you  were  a 
new  man;  that  this  upheaving  strife  altered  the 
face  of  all  things,  and  you  along  with  it." 

"Why,  and  so  it  has!"  cried  I. 

"Nay,  but  think  awhile!  You  have  marched 
and  countermarched  for  —  how  long  ?  —  two 
years  ?  —  two  years  of  that  period  of  life  when 
honest  thoughtful  men  turn  to  making  account 
with  themselves,  try  to  learn  why  they  were  sent 
into  the  world  and  what  to  do,  observe  the  hopes 
and  ambitions  of  their  fellows,  prove  their  own 
limits,  and  so  set  up  their  rest  against  old  age 
and  death.  You  rode  from  home  under  a  sudden 
[122] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

persuasion  that  your  business  in  the  world,  and 
the  business  of  all  these  thousands  of  different 
men,  was  to  defend  his  Majesty.  How  long  this 
persuasion  held  you  I  will  not  guess;  yet  I  do  not 
doubt  that,  as  the  days  went  by,  you  observed  all 
these  particles  of  an  army  returning  to  their  true 
natures  —  the  young  gentlemen  of  your  troop 
picquering  in  bravado,  or  in  mere  love  of  a  skir- 
mish, because  their  blood  is  hot;  coarser  fellows 
lusting  to  break  heads  for  the  sake  of  plunder; 
craftier  knaves,  who  know  that  war  is  insanely 
wasteful,  robbing  their  own  side  at  less  risk; 
calculators  such  as  Wilmot,  Grenville,  Goring, 
playing  for  high  stakes  under  the  fence  of  war- 
fare, which  of  itself  interests  them  not  a  jot.  As 
for  you,  Sir  —  I  took  note  of  your  horse  just  now 
at  the  churchyard  gate.  You  see  well  to  his 
grooming." 

"I  groom  him  always  with  my  own  hand," 
said  I. 

"  To  be  sure  —  a  man  of  method,  strict  and 
punctual  in  all  soldierly  duties!  But  the  savour 
has  gone  out  of  them.  Where  the  treasure  is, 
there  will  the  heart  lie  also."  He  nodded  toward 
my  drawings. 

Now  there  lurked  a  nettle  of  truth  in  his  words, 
and  it  stung  me. 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

"And  where  may  your  treasure  lie,  Sir?"  I 
asked  pretty  sharply. 

"Come,"  said  he,  and  led  the  way  out  into  the 
churchyard.  The  sun  was  fast  declining,  and 
the  light  fell  in  warm  beams  against  the  grave- 
stones and  over  the  belted  trees  that  ringed  the 
prospect.  He  waved  a  hand. 

"From  the  high  land  above  us,  Sir,  you  may 
look  almost  to  two  seas;  and  between  these  two 
seas  all  was  once  Carminowe's.  Two  hundred 
years  before  the  Normans  came,  Carminowe  was 
a  great  man;  and  for  four  hundred  years  after." 

"A  wide  treasure,"  said  I. 

"You  will  not  find  my  heart  hid  beneath  a 
single  turf  of  it,  but  here  only,"  said  he,  and 
pointed;  and  I  looked  down  upon  a  green 
grave. 

"I  think  that  I  understand,  Sir,"  said  I,  as 
gently  as  might  be.  "He  was  your  son." 

He  bent  his  head.  Yet  anon  shook  it,  patiently 
dissenting.  "He  was  my  son;  the  child  of  my 
old  age.  But,  to  understand,  you  must  first  be 
father  to  such  an  one,  and  outlive  him." 

Now  I  was  casting  about  for  a  word  or  two  of 
comfort,  albeit  knowing  how  idle  they  needs 
must  be,  when  I  heard  a  galloping  on  the  drive 
and  my  name  shouted  lustily;  and  there  came 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

riding  down  to  the  gate  from  northward  our 
Colonel  Digby,  waving  a  paper  in  his  hand. 

"Wyvern!"  he  called,  as  he  reined  up.  "I 
have  a  favour  to  ask,  and  have  ridden  to  ask  it 
in  person.  Read  you  this  letter;  but  first  mount 
and  ride  with  me  to  the  ridge." 

So  I  untethered  my  horse,  mounted  and  rode 
with  him  to  the  ridge. 

"Tell  me  what  you  see  yonder." 

I  stood  up  in  my  stirrups,  shading  my  eyes.  "I 
see,"  said  I,  "a  troop  of  horse  on  the  third  rise. 
To  all  appearance  the  riders  are  dressed  in  white." 

"They  are  in  their  shirts,  the  dogs!  Now  read 
their  challenge:  for  they  attend  on  our  answer." 

"Tush!"  said  I,  having  glanced  over  the  paper 
in  my  hand.  'Twas  a  foolish  challenge,  signed 
by  one  Straughan,  Colonel  of  Horse  in  the  Parlia- 
ment forces,  and  dared  us  to  a  combat  of  cavalry, 
one  hundred  upon  each  side  —  in  shirt  and 
breeches,  each  man  carrying  but  one  pistol  be- 
sides his  sword.  "Are  we  boys,  that  we  should 
heed  such  braggart  nonsense  ? " 

I  heard  a  chuckle  beside  me,  and  looked  down 
to  see  that  old  Carminowe  had  run  and  caught 
up  with  us.  He  lifted  the  palm  of  his  hand  under 
which  he  scanned  the  foe,  and  his  eyes  met  mine 
mockingly. 

[125] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

"They  have  wind,"  said  Digby,  "of  the  Earl's 
letter."  (That  morning  a  trumpet  had  returned 
with  an  answer  to  his  Majesty's  latest  proposi- 
tions; and  it  ran  that  Essex  had  no  authority 
from  Parliament  to  treat,  nor  could  do  so  with- 
out breach  of  trust.)  "And  that  wind  has  over- 
blown their  vanity." 

"Then,  with  submission,  Colonel,"  I  said,  "I 
would  send  them  no  answer,  but  let  them  cool  in 
their  shirts." 

"And  I  agree,"  he  answered.  "But,  as  luck 
will  have  it,  his  Majesty  has  dictated  an  answer, 
and  that  answer  is  already  on  its  way." 

"To  what  effect  did  his  Majesty  answer?" 

"To  the  same  as  a  certain  King  of  Israel  who 
said,  'Let  the  young  men  arise  and  play  before 
us.'  There  was  no  need  to  drum  for  volunteers, 
neither." 

"Nay,"  I  grunted,  "we  had  never  yet  a  lack 
of  hot-headed  fools!"  I  had  no  care  to  meet  the 
gaze  of  old  Carminowe,  but  I  knew  that  it  was 
upon  me:  for  he  stood  close  by  my  stirrup.  I 
knew  moreover  that  it  was  saying,  "You,  a  staid 
man,  mixt  up  in  this  folly!  And  this  King  who 
forwards  it  for  sport  —  is  this  he  whom  your 
life's  business  was  to  defend  ? " 

Now  —  as   the   army  would   understand   it  - 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

our  Colonel's  seeking  me  in  person,  when  so 
many  would  have  striven  for  the  chance  to  shine 
under  his  Majesty's  eyes,  was  a  high  compliment; 
and  the  higher  since  certain  of  the  hottest  young 
bloods  had  (as  I  heard  later)  stipulated  for  my 
company.  Yet  for  the  moment  I  was  angered, 
reading  old  Carminowe's  thought  and  knowing 
it  to  be  true.  I  had  no  natural  taste  for  this 
bravery  of  mere  fighting:  and  that  I  had  arrived 
to  be  a  man  sought  out  for  fighting  was  but  a 
proof  how  emptily  the  mass  of  men  exalts  it  above 
civil  pursuits,  seeing  that  my  credit  rested  wholly 
on  certain  habits  of  steadiness  and  caution  that 
in  any  other  business  I  should  have  applied  as 
cheerfully.  I  felt  no  desire  at  all  to  shine  for  his 
Majesty's  light  approbation,  albeit,  two  years  ago, 
I  had  enlisted  in  a  fervour  to  die  for  his  crown; 
and  feeling  my  uneasiness  under  old  Carminowe's 
gaze,  I  cursed  him  silently  for  having  read  me 
better  than  hitherto  I  had  read  myself. 

But  Digby  would  understand  nothing  of  this. 
He  was  a  good  fighter  and  a  good  fellow,  bred 
and  trained  in  military  vanities. 

So  I  answered  him  curtly  that,  if  this  folly 
were  afoot  and  now  inevitable,  I  would  come. 
I  spoke  too  sourly  perhaps,  and  my  words,  as 
I  could  see,  wounded  him. 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

"My  dear  Wyvern,"  said  he,  "I  thought  of 
you  at  once,  and  rode  for  you  expressly.  Other 
men  are  biting  their  mustachios  at  the  bare 
chance  of  it.  The  King  himself  will  be  looking 
on." 

"You  were  always  my  friend,"  said  I,  as  we 
spurred  forward  together. 

I  wish  to  waste  no  words  over  that  foolish  com- 
bat. We  were  a  hundred  a  side,  drawn  up  in  our 
shirt-sleeves  on  two  opposing  slopes,  and  we  en- 
countered in  the  hollow  between.  Digby,  who 
led  us,  had  given  the  word  to  hold  our  pistol-fire 
for  close  quarters,  and  I  on  the  left  had  wasted 
an  harangue  on  my  troopers  to  the  same  effect. 
But,  once  the  trumpets  had  sounded  "charge," 
the  whole  affair  became  but  a  wild  paper-chase. 
At  forty  yards'  distance  some  young  fools  on  the 
extreme  right  began  popping  off  their  pistols,  and 
in  half  a  dozen  strides  this  infection  had  run  like 
a  wildfire  along  one  line.  With  ordinary  seasoned 
men  of  my  own  troop  I  had  done  far  better;  but 
.these  were  the  picked  fools  of  an  army,  and  the 
main  of  them  under  twenty  years  old.  It  is 
always  short  work  between  two  bodies  of  horse 
meeting  in  full  shock:  one  swerves  and  flies,  or 
else  goes  under;  the  other  presses  on:  there  can  be 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

no  other  way.  For  me,  I  managed  to  unsaddle  a 
man  and  break  through  the  enemy's  right  with 
three  troopers  after  me.  Wheeling  then,  we 
saw  the  body  of  our  friends  in  full  flight;  and  a 
dozen  of  our  foes,  wheeling  at  the  same  instant, 
bore  down  on  us  nimbly.  We  spurred  to  meet 
them  in  second  shock:  but,  as  we  encountered, 
one  clever  round-pate,  who  had  reserved  his  fire, 
sent  a  bullet  through  my  charger's  shoulder-pin. 
I  had  at  that  instant  a  thrust  to  deliver  under 
the  arm  of  another  fellow,  and  the  poor  brute's 
fall  took  me  at  unawares.  I  was  flung  heavily 
and  stunned;  and,  the  game  being  over,  no  doubt 
his  Majesty  rode  moodily  off  to  supper.  Like 
other  Kings,  he  was  trained  to  sport;  but  I  doubt 
if  he  ever  arrived  at  enjoying  it. 


II 

The  main  body  of  the  Parliament  horse  and 
two  regiments  at  least  of  their  foot  were  quartered 
at  Lestithiel,  in  the  valley  under  Boconnoc  —  a 
neat  tidy  town,  but  not  commodious  for  so  great 
a  mob.  It  stands  by  an  ancient  bridge  of  eight 
arches,  where  the  tidal  water  running  up  from 
Fowey  spends  the  last  of  its  strength;  and  there 
is  a  Hall  and  Exchequer  where  the  Dukes  of 
[129] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

Cornwall  had  been  used  to  receive  their  Stannary 
accounts,  with  a  small  prison  beside  for  debtors 
and  offenders  under  the  laws  of  Stannary. 

This  prison  being  crowded  already  with  pris- 
oners taken  by  the  rebels,  the  Provost  Marshal 
clapped  me,  with  nine  others  made  captive  in 
the  above  skirmish,  in  the  parish  church  of  St. 
Bartholomew;  and  there  set  a  guard  over  us, 
using  us  more  gently  (I  suppose)  for  that  we  had 
come  to  him  in  more  ceremonious  fashion  than 
by  the  ordinary  hazard  of  war.  The  rebel  cavalry 
had  turned  the  church  into  a  stable,  and  defiled 
it  past  description.  Also  I  heard  a  tale  of  their 
having  led  a  horse  to  the  font  and  christened 
him  Charles  —  a  double  insult  to  God  and  to 
their  King;  but  will  say  in  fairness  that  they 
practised  no  such  blasphemy  during  my  sojourn 
there,  nor  seemed  the  men  to  do  it,  but  went 
about  their  grooming  and  feeding  of  their  horses 
soberly  enough,  making  no  more  of  the  church 
than  if  it  had  indeed  been  a  stable.  Over  us 
they  kept  strict  watch,  but  fed  us  as  well  as  they 
themselves  fared,  and  showed  us  no  incivility; 
nay,  at  my  request  one  found  pen,  ink,  and  paper 
for  me  that  I  might  pass  the  time  away  by  copy- 
ing the  scutcheons  in  the  windows,  the  glass  of 
which  they  had  spared. 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

Among  us  ten  unfortunates  were  two  young 
gentlemen  of  Cornwall,  Humphrey  Grylls  and 
John  Trecarrel  (but  as  "Jack"  saluted  by  every- 
one). They  both  had  hurts:  Grylls  a  shot  through 
the  flesh  of  an  arm,  with  two  broken  ribs  to  boot; 
Trecarrel  a  slight  glancing  wound  across  the  left 
lower  ribs.  For  myself,  I  had  taken  no  harm 
beyond  the  bruise  of  my  tumble,  though  my  head 
swam  for  days  after  and  I  suffered  from  frequent 
fits  of  nausea.  The  other  seven  were  common 
troopers,  decent  fellows;  and  one  carried  in  his 
breeches'  pocket  a  pack  of  cards,  which  kept  us 
well  amused  until  a  Roundhead  sergeant,  dis- 
covering our  play,  reported  it  to  the  Provost- 
Marshal,  who  took  the  cards  away. 

In  this  church  of  Lestithiel,  then,  I  dwelt  from 
the  day  of  my  capture  (August  10)  until  the  last 
of  the  month,  and  on  the  whole  very  cheerfully; 
for  we  saw  that  the  rebels  intended  us  no  injury, 
and  from  some  of  them  we  had  news  of  Sir  Jacob 
Astley's  seizing  the  forts  at  the  entry  of  Fowey 
Haven  and  so  cutting  off  Essex  from  his  supplies 
by  sea;" wherefore  we  told  ourselves  that  the  Earl 
must  either  surrender  or  make  a  desperate  push 
to  cut  a  way  through  his  Majesty's  posts,  and 
that,  whichever  he  might  choose,  our  liberty 
would  not  be  long  delayed. 

['3'] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

Also,  and  besides  my  copying  of  the  scutcheons, 
I  pleased  myself  with  composing  of  a  chrono- 
gramma  which  I  here  present  to  the  reader.  I 
thought  it  mighty  ingenious  at  the  time :  and  so  it 
is,  and  I  spent  four  days  upon  it  — 

VI Vat  reX,  CoMes  esseXIfs  Dlsslpatfr. 

or,  in  English,  "Long  live  the  King,  the  Earl  of 
Essex  is  put  to  the  rout."  You  will  see  that,  by 
taking  out  from  the  Latin  all  the  letters  that  stand 
for  Roman  numerals  —  and  no  other  —  you  get 
the  Annus  Domini  1644:  in  this  way  — 


MDC  together  make  sixteen  hundred 

and 
XXVVVV,  forty 

and 
////,  four 


the  total  1644. 


I  have  shown  it  to  many  in  private,  and  all  agree 
that  no  better  chronogramma  was  made  during 
the  late  troubles :  but,  to  be  sure,  I  had  leisure  for 
it. 

To  leave  these  toys  —  on  the  last  day  but  one 
of  August,  and  a  little  before  nine  in  the  evening, 
there  came  into  the  church  (that  was  lit  by  a  few 
lanterns  only)  two  foot-soldiers  bearing  a  ladder 
between  them  and  a  rope,  which  presently  they 
set  down  in  a  corner  by  the  belfry  and  departed. 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

They  being  scarce  gone,  by-and-by  there  entered 
two  other  soldiers  with  a  prisoner,  whom  they 
unbound  —  for  his  arms  had  been  trussed  behind 
him  —  and  bade  make  what  cheer  he  might  until 
the  morrow.  Now,  whether  he  had  spied  us  or 
not  as  they  brought  him  in  I  cannot  say;  but, 
being  loosed,  he  moved  at  first  down  the  aisle 
uncertainly  as  a  man  might  who  found  even  the 
dull  light  too  strong  for  his  eyes  —  then  with  a 
quick  tottering  step  towards  us,  that  were  gathered 
around  a  lantern  and  taking  our  supper  near  the 
belfry:  and  as  he  drew  toward  us  I  knew  him  for 
old  Carminowe. 

"Why,  what  harm  can  they  have  found  in 
you?"  asked  I,  taking  his  hand  (as  fellows  will 
in  misfortune)  and  giving  him  a  seat  beside  us. 
At  this  distance  of  time  I  will  own  that  this  speech 
of  mine  seems  not  over-delicate;  yet  these  were 
the  words  I  used,  and,  be  sure,  I  meant  them  well. 

He  put  my  question  aside.  "You  had  ill- 
luck,"  he  said.  "I  watched  you  from  the  high 
ground,  and  my  heart  went  with  you;  that  is  to 
say,  with  you,  Sir  —  and  with  you."  Here  he 
bowed  to  Grylls  and  Jack  Trecarrel,  and  went  on 
as  if  explaining  his  performance  lucidly.  "My 
son,  Sirs,  had  he  lived,  would  have  been  about 
your  age.  He  died  at  eighteen  and  a  few  months : 

[133] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

but  I  think  of  him  year  by  year  as  alive  and  grow- 
ing, and  so  I  seem  to  share  in  his  hopes  and  his 
high  mettle." 

My  companions  —  as  well  they  might  —  stared 
at  him,  and  from  him  to  me;  thinking,  no  doubt, 
that  here  was  some  madman. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  I,  and  presented  him 
formally.  "This  gentleman  and  I  are,  in  a 
fashion,  acquaintances.  He  is  a  countryman  of 
yours,  by  name  Carminowe." 

"Carminowe?"  Young  Grylls  looked  at  him 
musingly.  "I  have  read  the  name  on  a  hundred 
old  parchments  at  home." 

"The  estates,  Sir,"  said  Carminowe,  "have 
passed  into  many  hands,  but  into  none  worthier 
than  that  of  Grylls." 

"Faith,  that's  handsomely  said!"  answered 
Grylls,  perceiving  now  that,  in  spite  of  the  old 
man's  dress,  he  had  to  do  with  a  gentleman. 
"And,  as  for  the  estates,  our  greed  (which,  a 
generation  or  two  back,  was  a  scandal)  has  not 
swallowed  them  all,  I  hope  ?  —  though,  for  that 
matter,  if  these  crop-ears  prevail,  'tis  little  enough 
that  any  of  us  will  inherit." 

"They  will  not  prevail  at  this  bout,"  said  the 
old  man.  "At  Fowey,  they  tell  me,  the  Earl  has 
but  six  days'  provisions  and  is  planning  to  slip 

[-34] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

away  by  sea.  Between  this  and  the  coast  the 
soldiers  have  eaten  all  bare;  in  a  day  or  two  they 
must  break  through  or  surrender,  and  I  think, 
gentlemen,  I  can  promise  that  you  will  be  soon 
enlarged." 

"You  speak  with  assurance,  Sir,"  said  I,  hand- 
ing him  a  crust  and  filling  a  pannikin  for  him 
from  our  common  pail  of  water. 

"And  yet,"  said  he,  with  a  faint  smile,  "I  am 
no  combatant :  no,  nor  even  a  spy  —  though  to- 
morrow morning  they  are  to  hang  me  for  one." 

He  spoke  the  words  quietly  and  fell  to  munch- 
ing his  crust.  The  three  of  us  —  and  the  troopers 
too  —  stared  at  him  amazed :  and  for  explana- 
tion, his  jaws  being  occupied,  he  pointed  a  thin 
finger  at  the  ladder  and  rope. 

"But  surely,"  I  began,  "since  you  are  no  spy, 
someone  can  speak  for  you " 

"Lord,  Sirs!"  he  took  me  up;  "what  does  it 
matter  ?  I  had  yet  left  to  me  a  small  estate  in 
St.  Teath  parish,  which  they  have  twice  pillaged. 
My  son  they  slew  on  outpost  duty,  before  the 
first  Braddock  fight."  He  turned  to  me  again. 
"What  says  the  Mohun  motto,  Sir?  Generis 
revocamus  honores,  is  it  not  ?  Well,  there  is  no 
chance  of  that  for  the  Carminowes.  Let  the 
Mohuns  paint  up  their  ancestral  hand  clutching 

[135] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

the  Pope's  golden  flower:  I  have  held  a  fairer  in 
mine,  and  seen  it  wither.  I  have  lived  through 
the  bitterness  of  death;  I  have  seen  the  end  of 
things.  The  last  Carminowe  goes  down  the  blind 
way  of  fate  —  goes  out  in  obloquy  to-morrow, 
hanged  for  a  spy  by  mistake.  I  have  finished  my 
quarrel  with  the  gods:  they  are  strong,  and  I 
make  no  complaint  that  they  choose  to  wind  up 
with  a  jest.  I  do  assure  you,  Sirs,  that  I  neither 
fear  death  nor  disdain  any  way  of  it." 

But  here  Jack  Trecarrel,  that  had  been  staring 
gloomily  at  the  wall  opposite,  suddenly  rubbed 
his  eyes  and  sat  up  with  a  laugh. 

"By  the  Lord,  Master  Carminowe!  and  if  that 
be  how  you  take  it,  you  may  yet  turn  the  jest 
against  the  gods." 

We  stared  at  him  all,  trying  to  read  his  meaning. 

"Nay,"  he  went  on,  "I  have  a  slow  wit,  and 
you  must  give  me  time.  The  notion  in  my  head 
may  be  worth  much  or  little.  Only  you  must 
tell  me,  Master  Carminowe,  on  what  ground  you 
promised  us  that  our  liberty  was  nigh  at  hand: 
for  something  will  depend  on  that." 

"'Tis  that  fortunate  knowledge  unfortunately 
brings  me  here,"  answered  the  old  man  with  a 
grave  smile.  "You  know  the  narrow  road  that 
passes  for  a  space  along  the  left  bank  above  the 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

bridge,  and  so  strikes  away  to  the  north-east  over 
the  downs  ?  It  has  deep  hedges,  you  will  re- 
member, and  at  the  bend  stands  a  mean  cottage. 
For  days  we  have  heard  talk  that  the  enemy 
would  try  to  break  away  by  this  road;  and  a  week 
ago  Goring  moved  down  a  body  of  horse  to  the 
fields  hard  by  and  posted  a  strong  picket  in  and 
about  the  cottage,  to  counter  this  design.  Well, 
then,  I,  to-night,  taking  my  ramble  after  sunset 
(as  my  custom  is,  and  known  to  our  sentries), 
came  down  to  this  cottage,  supposing  myself  to 
be  well  within  our  lines.  To  my  concern  no 
one  challenged  me,  and,  creeping  a  little  closer, 
I  found  the  place  empty.  But  while  I  stood, 
puzzling  this  out,  a  man  called  softly  from  a  little 
way  down  the  lane,  where  between  the  hedges 
all  was  dark  to  my  eyesight,  whom  I  approached 
without  fear,  supposing  him  to  be  one  of  our 
sergeants  in  command  of  a  picquet,  and  that 
maybe  he  had  a  message  for  me  to  take  back  to 
Goring.  'Give  the  password,  friend,  and  tell  us, 
What  time  did  he  say?'  this  man  demanded  of 
me.  I,  taken  aback  by  these  words,  stood  still: 
and,  with  that,  I  saw  beyond  the  hedge  the  faint 
light  of  the  stars  shining  on  many  scores  of  morions 
and  breastplates.  'Twas  a  whole  troop  of  horse 
drawn  up  and  standing  silent  in  the  field  below. 

[137] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

At  once  I  knew  that  these  must  be  rebels;  that 
the  pass  had  been  sold  by  some  traitor;  and  that 
I  had  tumbled  by  mistake  into  the  part  of  his 
messenger.  Heaven  knows  if,  using  my  wit  and 
naming  an  hour  boldly,  I  might  yet  have  escaped 
and  carried  back  warning  to  camp.  I  think  not: 
for  they  would  have  pressed  me  for  the  password. 
As  it  was,  being  dumbfoundered,  I  broke  away 
and  tried  to  run:  but  the  fellow  was  after  me  in  a 
trice,  and  my  old  legs  carried  me  but  a  dozen 
yards  before  he  had  me  down  and  flung  on  my 
back.  You  can  guess,  Sirs,  what  remains  to 
tell.  They  marched  me  down  here;  and  to- 
morrow —  supposing  me  to  know  what  would 
implicate,  no  doubt,  several  men  of  standing  in 
both  armies  —  they  will  close  my  mouth  for  ever. 
For  'tis  certain  the  King's  interests  have  been 
betrayed,  and  the  rogues  will  break  through  to- 
night, no  one  hindering.  They  have  a  river-fog, 
too,  to  help  them.  Now,  whether  or  not  the 
infantry  will  make  a  dash  for  it  after  the  horse 
I  cannot  tell  you:  but  to-morrow  his  Majesty 
will  march  down  into  Lestithiel  and  you  will  be 
free." 

"Then  a  few  hours  would  suffice  to  save 
you,  Master  Carminowe?"  said  Trecarrel,  still 
pondering. 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

The  old  gentleman  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"They  will  get  my  business  done  early,"  said  he. 
"I  pray  you,  feel  no  more  concern  about  it." 
He  turned  to  me  and  asked  if  I  had  amused  my- 
self with  sketching  the  monuments  of  this  church 
as  well  as  of  Boconnoc.  The  windows  being 
dark  against  the  lantern-light,  we  could  see  no 
more  than  the  outlines  of  their  blazonries:  but  he 
seemed  to  know  them  by  heart.  I  told  him  how 
that  among  them  I  had  found  his  own  coat  twice 
depicted  —  azure,  a  bend  or,  but  this  time  with- 
out the  three-pointed  label  of  difference. 

He  nodded.  "And  that  is  right,"  said  he;  "we 
have  no  business  with  the  label."  He  went  on  to 
tell  that  in  Edward  the  Third's  time,  in  the  Eng- 
lish camp  before  Paris,  Carminowe  of  Cornwall 
had  challenged  Sir  Richard  Scrope  with  wrong- 
fully bearing  his  arms;  and  that  six  knights 
appointed  to  decide  the  controversy  had  found 
Carminowe  to  be  descended  of  a  lineage  armed 
azure,  a  bend  or,  since  the  time  of  King  Arthur. 
This  led  us  into  converse  on  the  Scrope  and 
Grosvenor  dispute.  "Tis  curious,"  said  he  after 
a  while,  "that  we  may  be  the  last  men  in  England 
to  sit  awake  talking  over  these  old  tales.  For 
when  the  rebels  have  dispossessed  his  Majesty  — 
as  they  surely  will  —  and  have  destroyed  the 

[139] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

fountain   of  honour,   who   would   light   his   pipe 
with  such-like  straws?" 

But  I  would  not  allow  the  King's  cause  to  be 
hopeless,  and  showed  him  my  chronogramma,  not 
without  complacency. 

He  took  the  paper  in  hand,  and  was  holding  it 
close  to  the  lantern,  to  con  it,  when  at  that  in- 
stant Jack  Trecarrel  started  up  on  his  straw 
pallet  into  a  sitting  posture,  and  nudged  Grylls 
—  who,  with  the  rest  of  our  comrades,  lay  in  a 
sound  sleep;  but,  feeling  his  elbow  jogged,  he 
opened  his  eyes. 

Having  wakened  Grylls,  Trecarrel  motioned  to 
us  both  to  do  as  he  did  without  questioning,  and 
began  very  cautiously  to  pull  off  his  boots.  While 
he  did  this  a  new  thought  seemed  to  strike  him, 
for  he  puckered  his  brows  awhile,  and  leaning 
towards  me  whispered  across  the  back  of  Car- 
minowe  (who  still  bent  forward,  studying  my 
scrap  of  paper),  "  Rouse  the  men  on  your  side  - 
softly  as  you  can!  They  may  all  be  useful."  He 
turned  to  Grylls  and  whispered  (as  I  suppose) 
the  same  order:  for  Grylls  at  once  touched  the 
shoulder  of  the  trooper  lying  next  him,  and  put 
finger  to  lip  as  the  fellow  stirred  in  his  sleep  and 
blinked  up  at  him. 

I   on    my   part,   having   pulled   off  my   boots 
[140] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

obediently,  began  to  rouse  the  men  nigh  me 
with  similar  caution;  so  that  presently  we  had  the 
whole  ring  awake  and  staring,  their  eyes  asking 
what  we  intended.  "Heaven  help  me  if  I  know!" 
I  muttered  to  myself,  but  endeavoured  to  answer 
the  looks  bent  upon  me  by  looking  extremely  wise. 

"Most  ingenious!"  said  Carminowe  aloud, 
who  all  this  while  had  been  working  out  my 
riddle,  observant  of  none  of  these  preparations. 
He  turned  to  me.  "May  I  ask,  Sir " 

"Hist!"  commanded  Trecarrel,  laying  a  hand 
on  his  arm  and  peering  into  the  space  of  darkness 
between  us  and  the  chancel,  where  three  stable- 
lanterns  shone  foggily  —  one  tilted  on  the  cushion 
of  the  pulpit-desk,  the  other  two  set  side  by  side 
on  the  altar  itself.  In  the  choir-stalls  and  on 
the  floor  between  (where  the  altar-step,  with  a 
coat  laid  upon  it,  served  for  their  pillow)  maybe 
a  score  of  rebels  lay  snoring.  These  did  not 
belong  to  our  regular  guard,  and  indeed  by  night 
I  never  discovered  that  we  had  a  guard :  but  some 
four  hundred  soldiers  bivouacked,  as  a  rule,  in 
the  churchyard  outside,  with  sentries  posted; 
which  from  the  first  had  been  a  dead-wall  to  all 
our  projects  of  breaking  prison. 

After  peering  for  half  a  minute  or  so,  Trecarrel 
raised  himself  to  a  kind  of  crouching  posture, 

[HI] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

Grylls,  at  the  same  time,  imitating  him.  They 
beckoned  to  a  couple  of  our  troopers  to  follow 
them;  and,  backing  out  of  the  lantern's  rays,  in  a 
trice  all  four  made  a  sudden  dart  across  for  the 
shadow  of  the  belfry  arch. 

Then  in  a  trice  I  understood  what  was  forward; 
and,  pointing  to  Carminowe's  feet,  signalled  to 
him  to  slip  off  his  shoes.  The  tower  of  Lestithiel 
church  rises  to  a  spire,  and  its  belfry  chamber 
stood  then  on  a  raised  floor,  approached,  not  as  in 
most  belfries  by  a  winding  stair,  but  through  a 
trapway  by  a  ladder  reaching  up  from  the  ground. 
During  our  captivity  this  ladder  had  been  re- 
moved and  perhaps  cast  down  outside  in  the 
grass  of  the  churchyard.  But  now  I  followed 
Trecarrel's  guess  that  the  same  had  been  found 
and  carelessly  brought  back  for  Carminowe's 
hanging  on  the  morrow.  I  knelt  and  unlaced 
the  old  man's  shoes.  He  suffered  this,  eying  me 
as  if  to  ask  what  it  meant,  but  making  no  protest. 

One  by  one  our  comrades  slipped  away  into 
the  shadow  under  the  belfry.  I  heard  the  ladder 
raised  softly  and  then  a  light  scraping  as  its  upper 
end  touched  the  stonework  aloft.  It  seemed  to 
me,  too,  that  I  heard  a  footstep  mounting  the 
rungs;  but  of  this  I  could  not  be  sure.  Our 
enemies  in  the  chancel  snored  on. 

EH*] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

Five  minutes  passed;  again  I  heard  a  light 
footfall,  and  Trecarrel  came  stealing  back  to  us. 

"  Blow  out  the  light,"  he  commanded  —  and, 
as  he  crouched  to  whisper  this,  I  saw  his  face 
running  bright  with  sweat.  "And  give  me  the 
candle  —  the  bolt  of  the  trap  is  stiff." 

He  took  the  candle  from  me,  and  after  waiting 
a  moment,  to  be  sure  that  none  of  those  in  the 
chancel  had  taken  alarm  at  this  blowing  out  of 
the  light,  we  stole  across  all  three  to  the  ladder's 
foot.  Trecarrel  mounted  again.  I  heard  him 
rub  the  tallow  on  the  bolt  —  or  seemed,  at  least, 
to  hear  it;  and  by-and-by  the  trap  opened  with  a 
creak.  Still  the  sleepers  took  no  alarm. 

I  pushed  Carminowe  forward,  and  believe  that 
he  was  among  the  first  to  mount.  One  by  one 
the  others  followed,  Grylls  carrying  with  him 
the  coil  of  rope.  I,  as  senior  in  command,  took 
last  turn.  This  adventure  was  not  mine,  nor 
could  I  see  the  end  of  it;  but  I  supposed  that  in 
the  uncommon  military  operation  of  retreating 
up  a  steeple  the  commanding  officer's  place  must 
be  the  extreme  rear. 

My  foot  was  on  the  lowest  rung  when  some 
fool  above,  who  had  taken  the  coil  of  rope  off 
Grylls'  shoulders,  let  it  slip  through  the  hatch- 
way. It  struck  the  ladder,  and  came  glancing 

[H3] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

down  with  a  rush  fit  to  wake  the  dead;  and  almost 
on  the  instant  two  or  three  of  the  men  in  the 
chancel  had  sprung  to  their  feet  and  were  snatch- 
ing down  the  lanterns  there.  Now  I  had  leapt 
aside  nimbly  —  and  luckily  too,  or  the  blow  of  it 
had  either  brained  or,  at  the  least,  stunned  me: 
and  as  it  thudded  on  to  the  pavement  I  made  a 
clutch  at  the  rope  and  sprang  for  the  ladder  with 
a  shout  that  woke  the  whole  church  and  echoed 
back  on  me  with  a  roar. 

"Hoist!"  I  yelled,  clambering  as  high  as  I 
might,  and  anchoring  myself  with  an  arm  crookt 
through  a  rung. 

"'Hoist'  it  is!"  sung  down  Trecarrel's  voice 
cheerfully.  "  Hold  tight  below  —  and  you,  lads,  up 
with  him!  One,  two,  three  —  heave,  my  hearties!" 

'Twas  the  only  way:  for  already  half  a  score 
of  the  rebel  rogues  were  bearing  down  the  nave 
towards  me  at  a  run.  But,  I  thank  Heaven,  they 
had  started  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  remember 
their  muskets.  They  reached  the  belfry  arch  to 
find  the  foot  of  my  stairway  lifted  a  good  six 
feet  above  their  heads.  One  or  two  leaped  high 
and  made  a  clutch  for  it,  but  missed;  and  as  they 
fell  back,  staring  and  raising  their  lanterns,  I 
was  borne  aloft  and  removed  from  them  through 
the  trap  way  like  any  stage  god. 
[H4] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

My  comrades  lifting  me  off  the  ladder,  I  found 
myself  on  a  floor  of  stout  oak,  and  in  the  midst 
of  an  octagonal  chamber  filled  with  a  pale,  foggy 
light  —  as  I  supposed,  of  the  declining  moon. 
Directly  overhead,  in  a  cavernous  darkness,  hung 
the  great  bells  like  monstrous  black  spiders,  with 
their  ropes  like  filaments  let  down  and  swaying: 
for  a  stiff  and  chilly  breeze  blew  every  way  through 
the  chamber,  which  had  a  high  open  window  in 
each  of  its  eight  sides. 

For  these  windows  the  most  of  us  scrambled  at 
once,  foreseeing  what  must  happen.  Indeed, 
the  baffled  rogues  below  lost  no  time  over  their 
next  move;  but  running  for  their  muskets,  began 
firing  up  at  the  hatch  and  at  the  floor  under  our 
feet  —  the  boards  of  which,  by  the  favour  of 
Heaven,  were  of  oak  and  marvellous  solid;  also 
the  heavy  beams  took  many  of  their  shot;  but 
none  the  less  they  made  us  skip. 

This  volley,  fired  suddenly  within,  at  once,  as 
you  may  guess,  alarmed  all  the  bivouacs  in  the 
churchyard.  Crowds  poured  into  the  church, 
and  word  passing  that  all  the  eleven  prisoners 
were  escaped  into  the  belfry  under  the  spire, 
other  crowds  ran  back  into  the  street  and  began 
firing  briskly  at  the  windows.  But  this  helped 
them  nothing,  the  angle  being  too  steep,  and  the 

[145] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

bullets  —  or  so  many  of  them  as  found  entrance 
—  striking  upwards  over  our  heads.  By-and-by 
a  few  cleverer  marksmen  climbed  to  the  upper 
rooms  of  certain  houses  around  the  church,  and 
thence  peppered  us  hotly:  yet  with  no  more  effect 
than  the  others,  for  by  this  time  I  had  discovered, 
by  sounding  with  my  heel,  where  the  stout  beams 
ran  beneath  us.  Slipping  down  from  our  window- 
sconces  and  choosing  these  beams  to  stand  upon, 
we  were  entirely  safe  from  the  musketeers  out- 
side, and  reasonably  protected  from  those  below. 

"Now  the  one  thing  to  pray  for,"  whispered 
Trecarrel  to  me  in  a  pause  of  the  firing,  "is  that 
Lestithiel  town  contains  no  second  ladder  so  tall 
as  ours:  and  I  believe  it  cannot." 

"There  is  another  thing  to  pray  for,"  said  I; 
"which  is,  that  the  dawn  may  come  quickly." 

He  stared  at  me.  "My  good  Sir,  are  you 
crazed?"  he  demanded.  "Day  has  broke  al- 
ready! What  light  on  earth  do  you  suppose 
this  to  be  all  about  us  ?" 

"  I  took  it  for  the  moon,"  I  confessed  somewhat 
shamefacedly. 

He  burst  into  a  laugh.  "You  and  your  friend 
then  must  have  sped  the  time  rarely  with  your 
Scropes  and  your  Grosvenors,  your  fesses  and 
bends,  your  counter-paleys  and  what-not.  I  can 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

tell  you  the  night  dragged  by  tediously  enough 
for  me,  that  had  to  lie  and  listen  to  your  dis- 
coursing!" 

"But  hullo!"  said  I;  "they  seem  to  have  ceased 
firing  below.  And  whose  voice  is  that  calling?" 

'Twas  the  voice  of  the  Provost-Marshal  sum- 
moning us  to  parley.  He  had  been  roused  up  in 
haste,  and  by  the  tone  of  his  voice  was  in  a  tower- 
ing passion  of  temper. 

"At  your  service,  Sir!"  I  called  out  in  answer, 
approaching  the  trap.  "  But  if  you  want  a  parley 
it  must  be  an  honourable  one,  and  no  shooting  up 
or  catching  me  at  disadvantage." 

"My  men  will  not  fire  again  until  I  give  the 
word." 

"Very  well,  then:  what  do  you  require  of  us  ?" 

"  I  require  you  to  give  up  to  me,  and  instantly, 
the  prisoner  whom  we  took  last  night.  This  done, 
I  may  consent  to  overlook  your  escapade." 

"  For  what  purpose  do  you  want  him  ? " 

"That,  Sir,  is  my  affair,  I  should  hope.  'Tis 
enough  that  I  require  his  surrender." 

"Indeed  no,  Sir:  'tis  nothing  like  enough. 
The  gentleman  you  speak  of  happens  to  be  a 
friend  of  mine;  and  you  have  formed  an  opinion 
of  him  as  incorrect  as  it  is  injurious.  If  I  con- 
sent to  release  him  to  you,  it  will  only  be  on  your 

[147] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

engaging  yourself  most  solemnly  to  do  him  no 
harm." 

'Tis  wonderful  what  an  advantage  height  gives 
a  man  in  an  argument.  The  Provost-Marshal, 
dancing  with  rage  on  the  floor  far  below  and 
cricking  back  his  neck  to  get  sight  of  me,  cut  one 
of  the  absurdest  figures  in  the  world. 

"I'll  hang  you  all!"  he  threatened,  lifting  and 
shaking  his  fist.  "I'll  hang  every  mother's  son 
of  you!" 

But  here  I  felt  a  hand  laid  on  my  shoulder,  and 
looked  up  to  see  Trecarrel  standing  over  me  and 
smiling,  and  the  belfry  full  of  a  sudden  with  rosy 
morning  light. 

"Wyvern,"  said  he,  "don't  be  keeping  all  the 
fun  to  yourself!  Let  me  have  a  turn  with  the 
man,  and  go  you  to  the  window  —  the  north-east 
window  yonder,  and  tell  me  an  I  speak  not  the 
truth  to  him." 

I  gave  over  the  parley  to  him  and  moved  to  the 
window,  as  he  directed. 

"Tis  too  late,  my  master!"  Trecarrel  called 
cheerfully  down  the  trap.  "You  have  thirty 
minutes  at  the  most  to  reduce  us,  and  'twill  take 
you  all  that  time  to  pack  up  and  clear.  Already  a 
body  of  the  King's  foot  are  coming  over  the  hill 
straight  for  the  bridge,  and  your  one  ragged  regi- 
[148] 


'TIS   TOO    LATE,    MY    MASTER!"    TRECARREL   CALLED    CHEERFULLY 
DOWN    THE  TRAP 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

ment  there  is  making  haste  to  quit.  Do  I  not 
speak  the  truth,  Captain  Wyvern?"  He  flung 
this  question  to  me  over  his  shoulder. 

"The  Lord  be  praised,  you  do!"  I  cried.  "And 
see  —  another  and  stronger  body  making  down  to 
cross  the  ford  to  the  southward!"  By  this  time 
all  the  troopers  around  me  were  shouting  and 
pointing  and  some  of  them  capering  for  joy;  and 
sure  the  morning  sun  has  rarely  looked  on  blesseder 
sight  than  these  gallant  troops  made  as  they  de- 
scended glittering  to  the  river. 

"Softly — softly!"  Trecarrel  rebuked  us.  "With 
so  much  noise  I  cannot  hear  what  Master  Provost- 
Marshal  is  threatening.  Indeed,  Sir,"  he  called 
down,  "your  game  is  up.  Go  your  ways  now, 
and  may  they  lead  you  to  the  proper  end  of  all 
rebels!" 

I  did  not  hear  the  Provost-Marshal's  answer: 
and  for  a  minute  or  so  —  since  the  firing  did  not 
start  afresh  but  all  remained  quiet  —  I  supposed 
that  he  had  taken  our  advice  and  given  up  the 
game.  But  turning  for  a  look  down  into  the 
church  to  assure  myself,  I  saw  Trecarrel  rise  to 
his  feet  with  a  face  deadly  white. 

"The  villains!"  he  gasped  out,  pointing  to  the 
hatchway.     "They  are  bringing  powder  —  there 
-  right  under  us!" 

[H9] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

And,  while  he  pointed,  the  Provost-Marshal's 
voice  came  up  to  us,  cold  and  sneering.  "I'll 
give  you  this  last  chance,  my  gentlemen,"  he 
called.  "Will  you  hand  over  my  prisoner,  or 
must  I  blow  you  all  into  air  ?  You  have  half  a 
minute  to  decide." 

"  Let  us  go  down,  gentlemen,"  said  Carminowe, 
stepping  forward.  "I  thank  you  sincerely:  but 
in  truth,  as  I  have  told  you,  I  do  not  value  life." 

In  an  instant  Trecarrel  had  recovered  his  com- 
posure. "With  your  leave,  Captain,"  he  said, 
addressing  me,  "'twas  I  that  set  this  game  going, 
and  I  for  one  am  willing  to  play  it  out." 

I  glanced  from  him  to  Grylls,  who  stood  against 
the  wall  with  his  arms  folded.  He  wasted  no 
words,  but  answered  me  with  a  gloomy  nod.  Now 
I  turned  to  the  troopers,  from  whom  —  as  men  of 
mean  station  —  I  confess  that  I  looked  for  no 
such  folly  of  magnanimity  as  to  lay  down  their 
lives  for  an  old  man,  who,  besides,  was  begging  us 
to  yield  him  up.  Judge  my  amazement  then  when 
a  red-bearded  fellow  called  Wilkes  spoke  up  with 
a  big  oath,  growling  that  "surrender"  was  no 
word  for  his  stomach.  "Suppose  we  belonged  to 
your  own  troop,  Captain  —  what  would  you  look 
for  us  to  answer  ? " 

"In  general,"  I  told  him,  "I  should  look  for 

[-50] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

my  troop  to  follow  where  I  dared  to  lead.  But 
this  is  a  different  matter " 

A  man  by  Wilkes'  side  cut  me  short.  "Wounds 
alive,  Sir!  You  don't  command  the  only  men 
in  the  army!  Didn't  his  Majesty  pick  and 
choose  us  for  special  service?  Very  well,  then; 
tell  the  old  devil  to  fire  and  be  damned  to  him!" 

I  ran  my  eyes  over  their  faces.  "I  thank  you 
all,  friends,"  said  I:  "and  because  of  your  answer 
I,  for  one,  shall  die  —  if  God  wills  it  —  in  good 
hope  for  England." 

"Time  is  up,"  the  Provost-Marshal's  voice 
announced  from  below.  "Do  you  submit,  Sir?" 

"No!"  I  shouted,  and  all  shouted  together  with 
me;  nor  did  one  or  two  forbear  to  add  to  their 
defiance  words  of  the  grossest  insult. 

I  motioned  to  them  to  copy  me  and  lay  them- 
selves down  at  full  length  above  the  strongest 
beams:  and,  so  lying,  I  commended  my  soul  to 
God.  This  waiting  upon  the  slow-match  was 
the  worst  of  all.  "Will  it  never  come  ?"  groaned 
one  man,  clenching  his  hands. 

But  it  came  at  last,  with  a  jarring  lift  of  the 
earth  and  a  great  wind  that  took  us  —  flat-laid  as 
we  were  —  and  tossed  us  like  straws  in  a  heap 
against  the  wall.  Then  the  foundations  of  the 
world  opened  with  a  roar,  beating  all  sensation 

['Si] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

out  of  us  —  so  that,  had  we  died  then,  all  taste  of 
dying  was  gone  from  us.  Answering  the  roar, 
as  the  walls  rocked  with  it,  the  heavens  seemed 
to  split  and  open,  letting  through  a  downrush  of 
slates  and  stones  and  mortar:  and  overhead  a 
great  bell  clanged  once.  But  in  my  memory  the 
explosion  and  the  answering  downrush  stand 
separated  by  a  dark  gulf,  in  which  time  was  blotted 
out.  I  had  covered  my  face  with  my  cloak,  and 
saw  no  flame  at  all.  Yet  when  my  eyes  opened 
they  rested  first  upon  a  great  rent  in  the  belfry 
flooring,  through  which  one  of  the  heavy  beams, 
broken  midway,  thrust  up  two  jagged  ends.  I 
saw  this  through  a  cloud  of  smoke,  dust,  and 
lime.  Beside  me  my  comrades  lay  under  a  thick 
coating  of  limewash  and  cobwebs.  A  couple  of 
them  had  been  flung  across  my  legs,  and  one  or 
two  were  groaning.  On  the  far  side  of  the 
chamber  the  man  Wilkes  had  scrambled  to  his 
feet  unhurt,  and  was  leaning  with  his  elbow 
against  the  wall.  I  found  my  voice,  and,  while 
the  walls  yet  rocked,  called  to  Grylls  and  Trecarrel. 
To  my  amazement  their  two  voices  answered  me: 
and  to  my  greater  amazement  one  by  one  the  heap 
of  men  disengaged  themselves,  and,  shaking  off 
the  dust  and  lime  from  them,  rose  to  their  feet 
-  the  whole  of  them,  save  for  a  cut  or  two  and  a 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

few  bruises,  unharmed.  Old  Carminowe,  in 
particular,  had  not  taken  a  scratch. 

But  while  I  stared  at  them,  and  while  my 
shaken  wits  little  by  little  took  assurance  that  the 
tower  stood  yet  and  we  were  yet  alive,  in  my  ears 
rang  the  note  of  that  bell  which  had  sounded  once 
overhead.  I  stared  up  with  a  new  and  horrible 
apprehension,  mercifully  till  this  moment  de- 
layed. I  had  not  thought  of  the  bells.  The 
wind  of  the  explosion  had  whirled  two  or  three 
of  their  ropes  aloft  and  flung  them  over  the 
beams:  but  the  concussion,  which  had  shaken 
cartloads  of  cobwebs  down  upon  us,  had  seem- 
ingly left  the  cage  itself  uninjured.  My  eyes 
sought  to  pierce  the  gloom  up  there  in  the  bells' 
dark  throats.  It  seemed  to  me  that  one  of  the 
clappers  was  swaying.  I  thought  of  all  that  mass 
of  metal  slipping,  falling;  and  called  on  the  men 
in  a  panic  to  fetch  and  lower  the  ladder. 

Trecarrel  or  Grylls  —  I  forgot  which  —  be- 
sought me  to  delay:  the  enemy  might  yet  be  lying 
in  wait  for  us  outside  the  church.  I,  possessed 
with  this  new  terror  of  the  bells,  scarcely  heard 
them,  and  insisted  upon  lowering  the  ladder  with 
all  speed.  It  had  fallen  forward  from  the  wall 
against  which  we  had  rested  it,  and  now  lay  right 
across  our  heads.  Fast  as  they  could  the  men 

[153] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

obeyed  us,  lowering  it  through  the  hatchway  and 
thence  guiding  its  descent  by  the  rope  knotted 
about  an  upper  rung.  As  I  had  been  last  to 
mount,  so  I  was  first  to  slip  down;  as  I  reached 
the  foot  and  steadied  it  for  the  others  I  heard 
Wilkes  at  the  window  overhead  calling  out  that 
our  troops  had  won  the  bridge. 

And  now  comes  in  the  strangest  thing  in  all 
my  story.  We,  that  had  lived  in  comradeship 
for  three  weeks,  and  had  come  through  this  ex- 
treme peril  together,  parted  at  the  ladder's  foot 
and  ran  our  several  ways  without  a  word  said! 
I  took  one  glance  around  the  church.  A  good 
third  of  the  roof  had  been  blown  away  and  one 
of  the  tower-piers  was  evidently  tottering.  Two 
columns  of  the  arcade  along  the  south  aisle  lay 
prone.  I  need  not  say  that  scarce  a  pane  re- 
mained in  the  windows:  but  I  can  remember 
marvelling  that  so  much  of  the  glass  had  fallen 
inwards  and  lay  strewn  over  the  whole  flooring, 
even  in  the  nave,  and  I  remember  it  all  the  better 
through  having  to  pick  my  way  to  the  door  with 
shoeless  feet.  In  the  porch  I  overtook  and  ran 
past  old  Carminowe.  He  did  not  halt  to  thank 
me,  nor  did  I  pause  to  receive  his  thanks. 

Yet  I  saw  him  once  again.  From  the  church 
I  ran  to  meet  our  troops,  now  re-forming  at  the 

[154] 


CAPTAIN  WYVERN'S  ADVENTURES 

bridge-end  to  clear  the  town.  Half  an  hour 
later,  as  we  drove  the  retreating  rebels  beyond 
the  suburbs  and  out  into  the  dusty  lanes  towards 
Fowey,  almost  by  the  last  cottage  we  passed  a 
corpse  huddled  under  the  hedgerow  to  the  left  of 
our  march.  It  was  the  body  of  Carminowe, 
killed  by  a  chance  shot  of  the  men  from  whom  we 
had  lately  saved  him.  But  with  what  purpose  he 
had  pursued  them  and  invited  it,  I  cannot  tell. 


[•55] 


FRENCHMAN'S    CREEK 

A   REPORTED   TALE 

FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK  runs  up  between  over- 
hanging woods  from  the  southern  shore  of  Hel- 
ford  River,  which  flows  down  through  an  earthly 
paradise  and  meets  the  sea  midway  between  Fal- 
mouth  and  the  dreadful  Manacles  —  a  river  of 
gradual  golden  sunsets  such  as  Wilson  painted; 
broad-bosomed,  holding  here  and  there  a  village 
as  in  an  arm  maternally  crook'd,  but  with  a 
brooding  face  of  solitude.  OfF  the  main  flood  lie 
creeks  where  the  oaks  dip  their  branches  in  the 
high  tides,  where  the  stars  are  glassed  all  night 
long  without  a  ripple,  and  where  you  may  spend 
whole  days  with  no  company  but  herons  and 
sandpipers  — 

Helford  River,  Helford  River, 

Blessed  may  you  be! 
We  sailed  up  Helford  River 

By  Durgan  from  the  sea.  .  .  . 

And  about  three-quarters  of  a  mile  above  the  ferry- 
crossing  (where  is  the  best  anchorage)  you  will 
find  the  entrance  of  the  creek  they  call  French- 
[•57] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

man's,  with  a  cob-built  ruin  beside  it,  and  per- 
haps, if  you  come  upon  it  in  the  morning  sunlight, 
ten  or  a  dozen  herons  aligned  like  statues  on  the 
dismantled  walls. 

Now,  why  they  call  it  Frenchman's  Creek  no 
one  is  supposed  to  know,  but  this  story  will  ex- 
plain. And  the  story  I  heard  on  the  spot  from 
an  old  verderer,  who  had  it  from  his  grandfather, 
who  bore  no  unimportant  part  in  it  —  as  will  be 
seen.  Maybe  you  will  find  it  out  of  keeping 
with  its  scenery.  In  my  own  words  you  cer- 
tainly would:  and  so  I  propose  to  relate  it  just  as 
the  verderer  told  it  to  me. 


First  of  all  you'll  let  me  say  that  a  bad  temper 
is  an  affliction,  whoever  owns  it,  and  shortening 
to  life.  I  don't  know  what  your  opinion  may  be: 
but  my  grandfather  was  parish  constable  in 
these  parts  for  forty-seven  years,  and  you'll  find 
it  on  his  headstone  in  Manaccan  churchyard 
that  he  never  had  a  cross  word  for  man,  woman, 
or  child.  He  took  no  credit  for  it:  it  ran  in  the 
family,  and  to  this  day  we're  all  terribly  mild  to 
handle. 

Well,  if  ever  a  man  was  born  bad  in  his  temper, 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

'twas  Captain  Bligh,  that  came  from  St.  Tudy 
parish,  and  got  himself  known  to  all  the  world 
over  that  dismal  business  aboard  the  Bounty. 
Yes,  Sir,  that's  the  man  —  "  Breadfruit  Bligh," 
as  they  called  him.  They  made  an  Admiral  of 
him  in  the  end,  but  they  never  cured  his  cussed- 
ness:  and  my  grandfather,  that  followed  his  his- 
tory (and  good  reason  for  why)  from  the  day  he 
first  set  foot  in  this  parish,  used  to  rub  his  hands 
over  every  fresh  item  of  news.  "Darn  it!"  he'd 
say,  "here's  that  old  Turk  broke  loose  again. 
Lord,  if  he  ain't  a  warrior!"  Seemed  as  if  he  took 
a  delight  in  the  man,  and  kept  a  sort  of  tender- 
ness for  him  till  the  day  of  his  death. 

Bless  you,  though  folks  have  forgotten  it,  that 
little  affair  of  the  Bounty  was  only  the  beginning 
of  Bligh.  He  was  a  left'nant  when  it  happened, 
and  the  King  promoted  him  post-captain  straight 
away.  Later  on,  no  doubt  because  of  his  ex- 
periences in  mutinies,  he  was  sent  down  to  handle 
the  big  one  at  the  Nore.  "Now,  then,  you  dogs!" 
—  that's  how  he  began  with  the  men's  delegates 
"his  Majesty  will  be  graciously  pleased  to 
hear  your  grievances:  and  afterwards  I'll  be 
graciously  pleased  to  hang  the  lot  of  you  and 
rope-end  every  fifth  man  in  the  Fleet.  That's 
plain  sailing,  I  hope!"  says  he.  The  delegates 

[-59] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

made  a  rush  at  him,  triced  him  up  hand  and  foot, 
and  in  two  two's  would  have  heaved  him  to  the 
fishes  with  an  eighteen-pound  shot  for  ballast 
if  his  boat's  crew  hadn't  swarmed  on  board  by 
the  chains  and  carried  him  off.  After  this  he 
commanded  a  ship  at  Camperdown,  and  another 
at  Copenhagen,  and  being  a  good  fighter  as  well 
as  a  man  of  science,  was  chosen  for  Governor  of 
New  South  Wales.  He  hadn't  been  forty-eight 
hours  in  the  colony,  I'm  told,  before  the  music 
began,  and  it  ended  with  his  being  clapped  into 
irons  by  the  military  and  stuck  in  prison  for  two 
years  to  cool  his  heels.  At  last  they  took  him  out, 
put  him  on  board  a  ship  of  war  and  played  fare- 
well to  him  on  a  brass  band:  and,  by  George, 
Sir,  if  he  didn't  fight  with  the  captain  of  the  ship 
all  the  way  home,  making  claim  that  as  senior 
in  the  service  he  ought  to  command  her!  By 
this  time,  as  you  may  guess,  there  was  nothing  to 
be  done  with  the  fellow  but  make  him  an  Admiral; 
and  so  they  did,  and  as  Admiral  of  the  Blue  he 
died  in  the  year  'seventeen,  only  a  couple  of  weeks 
ahead  of  my  poor  grandfather,  that  would  have 
set  it  down  to  the  finger  of  Providence  if  he'd  only 
lived  to  hear  the  news. 

Well,  now,  the  time  that  Bligh  came  down  to 
Helford  was  a  few  months  before  he  sailed  for 

[160] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

Australia,  and  that  will  be  a  hundred  years  ago 
next  summer:  and  I  guess  the  reason  of  his  coming 
was  that  the  folks  at  the  Admiralty  couldn't  stand 
him  in  London,  the  weather  just  then  being 
sultry.  So  they  pulled  out  a  map  and  said, 
"This  Helford  looks  a  nice  cool  far-away  place; 
let  the  man  go  down  and  take  soundings  and  chart 
the  place";  for  Bligh,  you  must  know,  had  been 
a  pupil  of  Captain  Cook's,  and  at  work  of  this 
kind  there  was  no  man  cleverer  in  the  Navy. 

To  do  him  justice,  Bligh  never  complained  of 
work.  So  off  he  packed  and  started  from  London 
by  coach  in  the  early  days  of  June;  and  with  him 
there  travelled  down  a  friend  of  his,  a  retired 
naval  officer  by  the  name  of  Sharl,  that  was 
bound  for  Falmouth  to  take  passage  in  the  Lisbon 
packet;  but  whether  on  business  or  a  pleasure 
trip  is  more  than  I  can  tell  you. 

So  far  as  I  know,  nothing  went  wrong  with 
them  until  they  came  to  Torpoint  Ferry:  and 
there,  on  the  Cornish  side  of  the  water,  stood  the 
Highflyer  coach,  the  inside  of  it  crammed  full  of 
parcels  belonging  to  our  Vicar's  wife,  Mrs. 
Polwhele,  that  always  visited  Plymouth  once  a 
year  for  a  week's  shopping.  Having  all  these 
parcels  to  bring  home,  Mrs.  Polwhele  had  crossed 
over  by  a  waterman's  boat  two  hours  before, 
[161] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

packed  the  coach  as  full  as  it  would  hold,  and 
stepped  into  the  Ferry  Inn  for  a  dish  of  tea. 
"And  glad  I  am  to  be  across  the  river  in  good 
time,"  she  told  the  landlady;  "for  by  the  look  of 
the  sky  there's  a  thunderstorm  coming." 

Sure  enough  there  was,  and  it  broke  over  the 
Hamoaze  with  a  bang  just  as  Captain  Bligh  and 
his  friend  put  across  in  the  ferry-boat.  The 
lightning  whizzed  and  the  rain  came  down  like 
the  floods  of  Deva,  and  in  five  minutes'  time  the 
streets  and  gutters  of  Torpoint  were  pouring  on 
to  the  quay  like  so  many  shutes,  and  turning  all 
the  inshore  water  to  the  colour  of  pea-soup. 
Another  twenty  minutes  and  'twas  over;  blue  sky 
above  and  the  birds  singing,  and  the  roof  and  trees 
all  a-twinkle  in  the  sun;  and  out  steps  Mrs. 
Polwhele  very  gingerly  in  the  landlady's  pattens, 
to  find  the  Highflyer  ready  to  start,  the  guard  un- 
lashing  the  tarpaulin  that  he'd  drawn  over  the 
outside  luggage,  the  horses  steaming  and  anxious 
to  be  oflF,  and  on  the  box-seat  a  couple  of  gentle- 
men wet  to  the  skin,  and  one  of  them  looking  as 
ugly  as  a  chained  dog  in  a  street  fight.  This  was 
Bligh,  of  course.  His  friend,  Mr.  Sharl,  sat  along- 
side, talking  low  and  trying  to  coax  him  back  to 
a  good  temper:  but  Mrs.  Polwhele  missed  taking 
notice  of  this.  She  hadn't  seen  the  gentlemen 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

arrive,  by  reason  that,  being  timid  of  thunder, 
at  the  very  first  peal  she'd  run  upstair,  and 
crawled  under  one  of  the  bed-ties :  and  there  she 
bided  until  the  chambermaid  brought  word  that 
the  sky  was  clear  and  the  coach  waiting. 

If  ever  you've  had  to  do  with  timmersome 
folks  I  daresay  you've  noted  how  talkative  they 
get  as  soon  as  danger's  over.  Mrs.  Polwhele  took 
a  glance  at  the  inside  of  the  coach  to  make  sure 
that  her  belongings  were  safe,  and  then,  turning 
to  the  ladder  that  the  Boots  was  holding  for  her 
to  mount,  up  she  trips  to  her  outside  place  behind 
the  box-seat,  all  in  a  fluff  and  commotion,  and 
chattering  so  fast  that  the  words  hitched  in  each 
other  like  beer  in  a  narrow-necked  bottle. 

"Give  you  good  morning,  gentlemen!"  said 
Mrs.  Polwhele,  "  and  I  do  hope  and  trust  I  haven't 
kept  you  waiting;  but  thunder  makes  me  that 
nervous!  'Twas  always  the  same  with  me  from 
a  girl;  and  la!  what  a  storm  while  it  lasted!  I 
declare  the  first  drops  looked  to  me  a'most  so  big 
as  crown-pieces.  Most  unfortunate  it  should 
come  on  when  you  were  crossing  —  most  unfor- 
tunate, I  vow!  There's  nothing  so  unpleasant  as 
sitting  in  damp  clothes,  especially  if  you're  not 
accustomed  to  it.  My  husband,  now  —  if  he 
puts  on  a  shirt  that  hasn't  been  double-aired  I 
[163] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

always  know  what's  going  to  happen:  it'll  be 
lumbago  next  day  to  a  certainty.  But  maybe, 
as  travellers,  you're  not  so  susceptible.  I  find 
hotel-keepers  so  careless  with  their  damp  sheets! 
May  I  ask,  gentlemen,  if  you've  come  from  far  ? 
You'll  be  bound  for  Falmouth,  as  I  guess:  and  so 
am  I.  You'll  find  much  on  the  way  to  admire. 
But  perhaps  this  is  not  your  first  visit  to  Corn- 
wall?" 

In  this  fashion  she  was  rattling  away,  good  soul 
—  settling  her  wraps  about  her  and  scarcely  draw- 
ing breath — when  Bligh  slewed  himself  around  in 
his  seat,  and  for  answer  treated  her  to  a  long  stare. 

Now,  Bligh  wasn't  a  beauty  at  the  best  of  times, 
and  he  carried  a  scar  on  his  cheek  that  didn't 
improve  matters  by  turning  white  when  his  face 
was  red,  and  red  when  his  face  was  white.  They 
say  the  King  stepped  up  to  him  at  Court  once 
and  asked  him  how  he  came  by  it  and  in  what 
action.  Bligh  had  to  tell  the  truth  —  that  he'd 
got  it  in  the  orchard  at  home:  he  and  his  father 
were  trying  to  catch  a  horse  there:  the  old  man 
flung  a  hatchet  to  turn  the  horse  and  hit  his  boy 
in  the  face,  marking  him  for  life.  Hastiness, 
you  see,  in  the  family. 

Well,  the  sight  of  his  face,  glowering  back  on 
her  over  his  shoulder,  was  enough  to  dry  up  the 
[16+] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

speech  in  Mrs.  Polwhele  or  any  woman.  But 
Bligh,  it  seems,  couldn't  be  content  with  this. 
After  withering  the  poor  soul  for  ten  seconds  or 
so,  he  takes  his  eyes  off  her,  turns  to  his  friend 
again  in  a  lazy,  insolent  way,  and  begins  to  talk 
loud  to  him  in  French. 

'Twas  a  terrible  unmannerly  thing  to  do  for  a 
fellow  supposed  to  be  a  gentleman.  I've  naught 
to  say  against  modern  languages:  but  when  I  see 
it  on  the  newspaper  nowadays  that  naval  officers 
ought  to  give  what's  called  "increased  attention" 
to  French  and  German,  I  hope  that  they'll  use  it 
better  than  Bligh,  that's  all!  Why,  Sir,  my 
eldest  daughter  threw  up  a  situation  as  parlour- 
maid in  London  because  her  master  and  mistress 
pitched  to  parleyvooing  whenever  they  wanted  to 
talk  secrets  at  table.  "If  you  please,  Ma'am," 
she  told  the  lady,  "you're  mistaking  me  for  the 
governess,  and  I  never  could  abide  compliments." 
She  gave  a  month's  warning  then  and  there,  and 
I  commend  the  girl's  spirit. 

But  the  awkward  thing  for  Bligh,  as  it  turned 
out,  was  that  Mrs.  Polwhele  didn't  understand 
his  insolence.  Being  a  woman  that  wouldn't 
hurt  a  fly  if  she  could  help  it,  and  coming  from  a 
parish  where  every  man,  her  husband  included, 
took  pleasure  in  treating  her  respectfully,  she 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

never  dreamed  that  an  affront  was  meant.  From 
the  moment  she  heard  Bligh's  lingo,  she  firmly 
believed  that  here  were  two  Frenchies  on  the 
coach;  and  first  she  went  white  to  the  lips  and 
shivered  all  over,  and  then  she  caught  at  the  seat 
to  steady  herself,  and  then  she  flung  back  a  look 
at  Jim  the  Guard,  to  make  sure  he  had  his  blunder- 
buss handy.  She  couldn't  speak  to  Sammy 
Hosking,  the  coachman,  or  touch  him  by  the  arm 
without  reaching  across  Bligh:  and  by  this  time 
the  horses  were  at  the  top  of  the  hill  and  settling 
into  a  gallop.  She  thought  of  the  many  times 
she'd  sat  up  in  bed  at  home  in  a  fright  that  the 
Frenchmen  had  landed  and  were  marching  up 
to  burn  Manaccan  Vicarage:  and  how  often  she 
had  warned  her  husband  against  abusing  Boney 
from  the  pulpit  —  'twas  dangerous,  she  always 
maintained,  for  a  man  living  so  nigh  the  sea- 
shore. The  very  shawl  beside  her  was  scarlet, 
same  as  the  women-folk  wore  about  the  fields  in 
those  days  in  hopes  that  the  invaders,  if  any 
came,  would  mistake  them  for  red-coats.  And 
here  she  was,  perched  up  behind  two  of  her 
country's  enemies  —  one  of  them  as  ugly  as  Old 
Nick  or  Boney  himself — and  bowling  down 
towards  her  peaceful  home  at  anything  from  six- 
teen to  eighteen  miles  an  hour. 
[166] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

I  daresay,  too,  the  thunderstorm  had  given  her 
nerves  a  shaking;  at  any  rate,  Jim  the  Guard 
came  crawling  over  the  coach-roof  after  a  while, 
and,  said  he,  "Why,  Mrs.  Polwhele,  whatever  is 
the  matter  ?  I  han't  heard  you  speak  six  words 
since  we  started." 

And  with  that,  just  as  he  settled  himself  down 
for  a  comfortable  chat  with  her,  after  his  custom, 
the  poor  lady  points  to  the  two  strangers,  flings 
up  both  hands,  and  tumbles  upon  him  in  a  fit  of 
hysterics. 

"Stop  the  bosses!"  yells  Jim;  but  already 
Sammy  Hosking  was  pulling  up  for  dear  life  at 
the  sound  of  her  screams. 

"What  in  thunder's  wrong  with  the  female?" 
asks  Bligh. 

"Female  yourself,"  answers  up  Sammy  in  a 
pretty  passion.  "Mrs.  Polwhele's  a  lady,  and  I 
reckon  your  cussed  rudeness  upset  her.  I  say 
nothing  of  your  face,  for  that  you  can't  help." 

Bligh  started  up  in  a  fury,  but  Mr.  Sharl  pulled 
him  down  on  the  seat,  and  then  Jim  the  Guard 
took  a  turn. 

"Pitch  a  lady's  luggage  into  the  road,  would 
you?"  for  this,  you  must  know,  was  the  reason 
of  Bligh's  sulkiness  at  starting.  He  had  come  up 
soaking  from  Torpoint  Ferry,  walked  straight  to 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

the  coach,  and  pulled  the  door  open  to  jump 
inside,  when  down  on  his  head  came  rolling  a 
couple  of  Dutch  cheeses  that  Mrs.  Polwhele  had 
crammed  on  the  top  of  her  belongings.  This 
raised  his  temper,  and  he  began  to  drag  parcel 
after  parcel  out  and  fling  them  in  the  mud,  shout- 
ing that  no  passenger  had  a  right  to  fill  up  the 
inside  of  a  coach  in  that  fashion.  Thereupon 
Jim  sent  an  ostler  running  to  the  landlady  that 
owned  the  Highflyer,  and  she  told  Bligh  that  he 
hadn't  booked  his  seat  yet:  that  the  inside  was 
reserved  for  Mrs.  Polwhele:  and  that  he  could 
either  take  an  outside  place  and  behave  himself, 
or  be  left  behind  to  learn  manners.  For  a  while 
he  showed  fight:  but  Mr.  Sharl  managed  to  talk 
sense  into  him,  and  the  parcels  were  stowed  again 
and  the  door  shut  but  a  minute  before  Mrs. 
Polwhele  came  downstairs  and  took  her  seat  as 
innocent  as  a  lamb. 

"Pitch  a  lady's  luggage  into  the  road,  would 
you?"  struck  in  Jim  the  Guard,  making  himself 
heard  above  the  pillaloo.  "Carry  on  as  if  the 
coach  belonged  to  ye,  hey  ?  Come  down  and 
take  your  coat  off",  like  a  man,  and  don't  sit  there 
making  fool  faces  at  me!" 

"My  friend  is  not  making  faces,"  began  Mr. 
Sharl,  very  gentle-like,  trying  to  keep  the  peace. 
[168] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

"Call  yourself  his  friend!"  Jim  snapped  him 
up.  "Get  off,  the  pair  of  you.  Friend  indeed! 
Go  and  buy  him  a  veil." 

But  'twas  easily  seen  that  Mrs.  Polwhele 
couldn't  be  carried  further.  So  Sammy  Hosking 
pulled  up  at  a  farmhouse  a  mile  beyond  St. 
Germans:  and  there  she  was  unloaded,  with  her 
traps,  and  put  straight  to  bed:  and  a  farm-boy 
sent  back  to  Torpoint  to  fetch  a  chaise  for  her 
as  soon  as  she  recovered.  And  the  Highflyer  — 
that  had  been  delayed  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
-  rattled  off  at  a  gallop,  with  all  on  board  in  the 
worst  of  tempers. 

When  they  reached  Falmouth  —  which  was 
not  till  after  ten  o'clock  at  night  —  and  drew  up 
at  the  Crown  and  Anchor,  the  first  man  to  hail 
them  was  old  Parson  Polwhele,  standing  there 
under  the  lamp  in  the  entry  and  taking  snuff  to 
keep  himself  awake. 

"Well,  my  love,"  says  he,  stepping  forward  to 
help  his  wife  down  and  give  her  a  kiss.  "And 
how  have  you  enjoyed  the  journey?" 

But  instead  of  his  wife  'twas  a  bull-necked- 
looking  man  that  swung  himself  off  the  coach- 
roof,  knocking  the  Parson  aside,  and  bounced  into 
the  inn  without  so  much  as  a  "beg  your  pardon." 

Parson    Polwhele    was    taken    aback    for    the 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

moment  by  reason  that  he'd  pretty  nigh  kissed 
the  fellow  by  accident;  and  before  he  could  re- 
cover, Jim  the  Guard  leans  out  over  the  dark- 
ness, and,  says  he,  speaking  down:  "Very  sorry, 
Parson,  but  your  missus  was  taken  ill  t'other  side 
of  St.  Germans,  and  we've  been  forced  to  leave 
her  'pon  the  road." 

Now,  the  Parson  doted  on  his  wife,  as  well  he 
might.  He  was  a  very  learned  man,  you  must 
know,  and  wrote  a  thundering  great  history  of 
Cornwall:  but  outside  of  book-learning  his  head 
rambled  terribly,  and  Mrs.  Polwhele  managed 
him  in  all  the  little  business  of  life.  "'Tis  like 
looking  after  a  museum,"  she  used  to  declare. 
"I  don't  understand  the  contents,  I'm  thankful 
to  say;  but,  please  God,  I  can  keep  'em  dusted." 
A  better-suited  couple  you  couldn't  find,  nor  a 
more  affectionate;  and  whenever  Mrs.  Polwhele 
tripped  it  to  Plymouth,  the  Parson  would  be  at 
Falmouth  to  welcome  her  back,  and  they'd  sleep 
the  night  at  the  Crown  and  Anchor  and  drive 
home  to  Manaccan  next  morning. 

"Taken  ill?"  cries  the  Parson.  "Oh,  my 
poor  Mary  —  my  poor,  dear  Mary!" 

"Tisn'  so  bad  as  all  that,"  says  Jim,  as  sooth- 
ing as  he  could;  but  he  thought  it  best  to  tell 
nothing  about  the  rumpus. 
[170] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

"If  'tis  on  the  wings  of  an  eagle,  I  must  fly  to 
her!"  cries  the  Parson,  and  he  hurried  indoors 
and  called  out  for  a  chaise  and  pair. 

He  had  some  trouble  in  persuading  a  post-boy 
to  turn  out  at  such  an  hour,  but  before  midnight 
the  poor  man  was  launched  and  rattling  away 
eastward,  chafing  at  the  hills  and  singing  out 
that  he'd  pay  for  speed,  whatever  it  cost.  And  at 
Grampound  in  the  grey  of  the  morning  he  almost 
ran  slap  into  a  chaise  and  pair  proceeding  west- 
ward, and  likewise  as  if  its  postilion  wanted  to 
break  his  neck. 

Parson  Polwhele  stood  up  in  his  vehicle  and 
looked  out  ahead.  The  two  chaises  had  nar- 
rowly missed  doubling  each  other  into  a  cocked 
hat;  in  fact,  the  boys  had  pulled  up  within  a 
dozen  yards  of  smash,  and  there  stood  the  horses 
face  to  face  and  steaming. 

"Why,  'tis  my  Mary!"  cries  the  Parson,  and 
takes  a  leap  out  of  the  chaise. 

"Oh,  Richard!  Richard!"  sobs  Mrs.  Polwhele. 
"But  you  can't  possibly  come  in  here,  my  love," 
she  went  on,  drying  her  eyes. 

"  Why  not,  my  angel  ? " 

"  Because  of  the  parcels,  dearest.  And  Heaven 
only  knows  what's  underneath  me  at  this  moment, 
but  it  feels  like  a  flat-iron.  Besides,"  says  she, 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

like  the  prudent  woman  she  was,  "we've  paid  for 
two  chaises.  But  'twas  good  of  you  to  come  in 
search  of  me,  and  I'll  say  what  I've  said  a  thou- 
sand times,  that  I've  the  best  husband  in  the 
world." 

The  Parson  grumbled  a  bit;  but,  indeed,  the 
woman  was  piled  about  with  packages  up  to  the 
neck.  So,  very  sad-like,  he  went  back  to  his  own 
chaise  —  that  was  now  slewed  about  for  Falmouth 
—  and  off  the  procession  started  at  an  easy  trot, 
the  good  man  bouncing  up  in  his  seat  from  time 
to  time  to  blow  back  a  kiss. 

But  after  awhile  he  shouted  to  the  post-boy 
to  pull  up  again. 

"What's  the  matter,  love?"  sings  out  Mrs. 
Polwhele,  overtaking  him  and  coming  to  a  stand 
likewise. 

"Why,  it  occurs  to  me,  my  angel,  that  you 
might  get  into  my  chaise,  if  you're  not  too  tightly 
wedged." 

"There's  no  saying  what  will  happen  when  I 
once  begin  to  move,"  said  Mrs.  Polwhele:  "but 
I'll  risk  it.  For  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  one 
of  my  legs  went  to  sleep  somewhere  near  St. 
Austell,  and  'tis  dreadfully  uncomfortable." 

So  out  she  was  fetched  and  climbed  in  beside 
her  husband. 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

"  But  what  was  it  that  upset  you  ? "  he  asked, 
as  they  started  again. 

Mrs.  Polwhele  laid  her  cheek  to  his  shoulder  and 
sobbed  aloud;  and  so  by  degrees  let  out  her  story. 

"But,  my  love,  the  thing's  impossible,"  cried 
Parson  Polwhele.  "There's  no  Frenchman  in 
Cornwall  at  this  moment,  unless  maybe  'tis  the 
Guernsey  merchant*  or  some  poor  wretch  of  a 
prisoner  escaped  from  the  hulks  in  the  Hamoaze." 

"Then,  that's  what  these  men  were,  you  may 
be  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Polwhele. 

"Tut-tut-tut!  You've  just  told  me  that  they 
came  across  the  ferry,  like  any  ordinary  pas- 
sengers." 

"  Did  I  ?  Then  I  told  more  than  I  know;  for  I 
never  saw  them  cross." 

"A  couple  of  escaped  prisoners  wouldn't  travel 
by  coach  in  broad  daylight,  and  talk  French  in 
everyone's  hearing." 

"We  live  in  the  midst  of  mysteries,"  said  Mrs. 
Polwhele.  "There's  my  parcels,  now  —  I  packed 
'em  in  the  Highflyer  most  careful,  and  I'm  sure 
Jim  the  Guard  would  be  equally  careful  in  hand- 
ing them  out  —  you  know  the  sort  of  man  he  is: 
and  yet  I  find  a  good  dozen  of  them  plastered  in 

*  Euphemistic  for  "  smugglers'  agent." 

[173] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

mud,  and  my  new  Moldavia  cap,  that  I  gave 
twenty-three  shillings  for  only  last  Tuesday, 
pounded  to  a  jelly,  quite  as  if  someone  had  flung 
it  on  the  road  and  danced  on  it!" 

The  poor  soul  burst  out  into  fresh  tears,  and 
there  against  her  husband's  shoulder  cried  her- 
self fairly  asleep,  being  tired  out  with  travelling 
all  night.  By-and-by  the  Parson,  that  wanted  a 
nap  just  as  badly,  dozed  off  beside  her:  and  in 
this  fashion  they  were  brought  back  through 
Falmouth  streets  and  into  the  yard  of  the  Crown 
and  Anchor,  where  Mrs.  Polwhele  woke  up  with 
a  scream,  crying  out:  "Prisoners  or  no  prisoners, 
those  men  were  up  to  no  good:  and  I'll  say  it  if 
I  live  to  be  a  hundred!" 

That  same  afternoon  they  transhipped  the 
parcels  into  a  cart,  and  drove  ahead  themselves 
in  a  light  gig,  and  so  came  down,  a  little  before 
sunset,  to  the  Passage  Inn  yonder.  There,  of 
course,  they  had  to  unload  again  and  wait  for 
the  ferry  to  bring  them  across  to  their  own  parish. 
It  surprised  the  Parson  a  bit  to  find  the  ferry-boat 
lying  ready  by  the  shore  and  my  grandfather 
standing  there  head  to  head  with  old  Arch'laus 
Spry,  that  was  constable  of  Mawnan  parish. 

"Hullo,  Calvin!"  the  Parson  sings  out.     "This 

[174] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

looks  bad  —  Mawnan  and  Manaccan  putting 
their  heads  together.  I  hope  there's  nothing 
gone  wrong  since  I've  been  away  ? " 

"Aw,  Parson  dear,"  says  my  grandfather, 
"  I'm  glad  you've  come  —  yea,  glad  sure  'nuff. 
We've  a-been  enjoying  a  terrible  time!" 

"Then  something  has  gone  wrong?"  says  the 
Parson. 

"As  for  that,"  my  grandfather  answers,  "I 
only  wish  I  could  say  yes  or  no:  for  'twould  be  a 
relief  even  to  know  the  worst."  He  beckoned 
very  mysterious-like  and  led  the  Parson  a  couple 
of  hundred  yards  up  the  foreshore,  with  Arch'laus 
Spry  following.  And  there  they  came  to  a  halt, 
all  three,  before  a  rock  that  someone  had  been 
daubing  with  whitewash.  On  the  top  of  the  cliff, 
right  above,  was  planted  a  stick  with  a  little 
white  flag. 

"Now,  Sir,  as  a  Justice  of  the  Peace,  what 
d'ee  think  of  it?" 

Parson  Polwhele  stared  from  the  rock  to  the 
stick  and  couldn't  say.  So  he  turns  to  Arch'laus 
Spry  and  asks:  "Any  person  taken  ill  in  your 
parish  ?" 

"No,  Sir." 

"You're  sure  Billy  Johns  hasn't  been  drinking 
again?"  Billy  Johns  was  the  landlord  of  the 

[•75] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

Passage  Inn,  a  very  ordinary  man  by  rule,  but 
given  to  breaking  loose  among  his  own  liquors. 
"He  seemed  all  right  yesterday  when  I  hired  the 
trap  off  him;  but  he  does  the  most  unaccountable 
things  when  he's  taken  bad." 

"  He  never  did  anything  so  far  out  of  nature  as 
this  here;  and  I  can  mind  him  in  six  outbreaks," 
answered  my  grandfather.  "Besides,  'tis  not 
Billy  Johns  nor  anyone  like  him." 

"Then  you  know  who  did  it?" 

"  I  do  and  I  don't,  Sir.  But  take  a  look  round, 
if  you  please." 

The  Parson  looked  up  and  down  and  across  the 
river;  and,  sure  enough,  whichever  way  he  turned, 
his  eyes  fell  on  splashes  of  whitewash  and  little 
flags  fluttering.  They  seemed  to  stretch  right 
away  from  Porthnavas  down  to  the  river's  mouth; 
and  though  he  couldn't  see  it  from  where  he  stood, 
even  Mawnan  church-tower  had  been  given  a 
lick  of  the  brush. 

"But,"  said  the  Parson,  fairly  puzzled,  "all 
this  can  only  have  happened  in  broad  daylight, 
and  you  must  have  caught  the  fellow  at  it,  who- 
ever he  is." 

"I  wouldn't  go  so  far  as  to  say  I  caught  him," 
answered  my  grandfather,  modest-like;  "but  I 
came  upon  him  a  little  above  Bosahan  in  the  act 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

of  setting  up  one  of  his  flags,  and  I  asked  him, 
in  the  King's  name,  what  he  meant  by  it." 

"And  what  did  he  answer?" 

My  grandfather  looked  over  his  shoulder.  "I 
couldn't,  Sir,  not  for  a  pocketful  of  crowns,  and 
your  good  lady,  so  to  speak,  within  hearing." 

"Nonsense,  man!  She's  not  within  a  hundred 
yards." 

"Well,  then,  Sir,  he  up  and  hoped  the  devil 
would  fly  away  with  me,  and  from  that  he  went 

on  to  say "  But  here  my  grandfather  came 

to  a  dead  halt.  "No,  Sir,  I  can't;  and  as  a  minister 
of  the  Gospel,  you'll  never  insist  on  it.  He  made 
such  horrible  statements  that  I  had  to  go  straight 
home  and  read  over  my  old  mother's  marriage 
lines.  It  fairly  dazed  me  to  hear  him  talk  so 
confident,  and  she  in  her  grave,  poor  soul!" 

"You  ought  to  have  demanded  his  name." 

"I  did,  Sir;  naturally  I  did.  And  he  told  me 
to  go  to  the  naughty  place  for  it." 

"Well,  but  what  like  is  he?" 

"Oh,  as  to  that,  Sir,  a  man  of  ordinary  shape, 
like  yourself,  in  a  plain  blue  coat  and  a  wig 
shorter  than  ordinary;  nothing  about  him  to  pre- 
pare you  for  the  language  he  lets  fly." 

"And,"  put  in  Arch'laus  Spry,  "he's  taken 
lodgings  down  to  Durgan  with  the  Widow  Pol- 

[•77]. 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

kinghorne,  and  eaten  his  dinner  —  a  fowl  and  a 
jug  of  cider  with  it.  After  dinner  he  hired 
Robin's  boat  and  went  for  a  row.  I  thought  it 
my  duty,  as  he  was  pushing  off,  to  sidle  up  in  a 
friendly  way.  I  said  to  him,  'The  weather,  Sir, 
looks  nice  and  settled' :  that  is  what  I  said,  neither 
more  nor  less,  but  using  those  very  words.  What 
d'ee  think  he  answered  ?  He  said,  'That's  capi- 
tal, my  man:  now  go  along  and  annoy  somebody 
else.'  Wasn't  that  a  disconnected  way  of  talk- 
ing? If  you  ask  my  opinion,  putting  two  and 
two  together,  I  say  he's  most  likely  some  poor 
wandering  loonatic." 

The  evening  was  dusking  down  by  this  time, 
and  Parson  Polwhele,  though  a  good  bit  puzzled, 
called  to  mind  that  his  wife  would  be  getting 
anxious  to  cross  the  ferry  and  reach  home  before 
dark :  so  he  determined  that  nothing  could  be  done 
before  morning,  when  he  promised  Arch'laus 
Spry  to  look  into  the  matter.  My  grandfather 
he  took  across  in  the  boat  with  him,  to  look  after 
the  parcels  and  help  them  up  to  the  Vicarage: 
and  on  the  way  they  talked  about  a  grave  that  my 
grandfather  had  been  digging  —  he  being  sexton 
and  parish  clerk,  as  well  as  constable  and  the 
Parson's  right-hand  man,  as  you  might  call  it, 
in  all  public  matters. 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

While  they  discoursed,  Mrs.  Polwhele  was 
taking  a  look  about  her  to  make  sure  the  country 
hadn't  altered  while  she  was  away  at  Plymouth. 
And  by-and-by  she  cries  out  — 

"Why,  my  love,  whatever  are  these  dabs  o' 
white  stuck  up  and  down  the  foreshore?" 

The  Parson  takes  a  look  at  my  grandfather  be- 
fore answering:  "My  angel,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
that's  more  than  we  know." 

"Richard,  you're  concealing  something  from 
me,"  said  Mrs.  Polwhele.  "  If  the  French  have 
landed  and  I'm  going  home  to  be  burnt  in  my 
bed,  it  shall  be  with  my  eyes  open." 

"My  dear  Mary,"  the  Parson  argued,  "you've 
a-got  the  French  on  your  brain.  If  the  French 
landed  they  wouldn't  begin  by  sticking  dabs  of 
whitewash  all  over  the  parish;  now,  would  they  ?" 

"How  in  the  world  should  I  know  what  a  lot 
of  Papists  would  do  or  not  do?"  she  answered. 
"'Tis  no  more  foolish  to  my  mind  that  eating 
frogs  or  kissing  a  man's  toe." 

Well,  say  what  the  Parson  would,  the  notion 
had  fixed  itself  in  the  poor  lady's  head.  Three 
times  that  night  she  woke  in  the  bed  with  her 
curl-papers  crackling  for  very  fright;  and  the 
fourth  time  'twas  at  the  sound  of  a  real  dido  be- 
low stairs.  Some  person  was  down  by  the  back- 

[179] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

door  knocking  and  rattling  upon  it  with  all  his 
might. 

The  sun  had  been  up  for  maybe  an  hour- 
the  time  of  year,  as  I  told  you,  being  near  about 
mid-summer  —  and  the  Parson,  that  never  wanted 
for  pluck,  jumped  out  and  into  his  breeches  in  a 
twinkling,  while  his  wife  pulled  the  counterpane 
over  her  head.  Down  along  the  passage  he 
skipped  to  a  little  window  opening  over  the  back 
porch. 

"Who's  there!"  he  called,  and  out  from  the 
porch  stepped  my  grandfather,  that  had  risen 
early  and  gone  to  the  churchyard  to  finish  dig- 
ging the  grave  before  breakfast.  "Why,  what  on 
the  earth  is  wrong  with  ye  ?  I  made  sure  the 
French  had  landed,  at  the  least." 

"Couldn't  be  much  worse  if  they  had,"  said  my 
grandfather.  "  Some  person  've  a-stole  my  shovel, 
pick,  and  biddicks." 

"Nonsense!"  said  the  Parson. 

"The  corpse  won't  find  it  nonsense,  Sir,  if  I 
don't  get  'em  back  in  time.  I  left  'em  lying,  all 
three,  at  the  bottom  of  the  grave  overnight." 

"And  now  they're  missing?" 

"Not  a  trace  of  'em  to  be  seen." 

"Someone   has   been   playing  you   a   practical 

joke,  Calvin.     Here,  stop  a  moment "     The 

[180] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

Parson  ran  back  to  his  room,  fetched  a  key,  and 
flung  it  out  into  the  yard.  "That  '11  unlock  the 
tool-shed  in  the  garden.  Get  what  you  want, 
and  we'll  talk  about  the  theft  after  breakfast. 
How  soon  will  the  grave  be  ready  ?" 

"  I  can't  say  sooner  than  ten  o'clock  after  what 
has  happened." 

"Say  ten  o'clock,  then.  This  is  Saturday,  and 
I've  my  sermon  to  prepare  after  breakfast.  At 
ten  o'clock  I'll  join  you  in  the  churchyard." 


ii 

My  grandfather  went  off  to  unlock  the  tool- 
shed,  and  the  Parson  back  to  comfort  Mrs. 
Polwhele  —  which  was  no  easy  matter.  "There's 
something  wrong  with  the  parish  since  I've  been 
away,  and  that  you  can't  deny,"  she  declared. 
"It  don't  feel  like  home  any  longer,  and  my  poor 
flesh  is  shivering  like  a  jelly,  and  my  hand  almost 
too  hot  to  make  the  butter."  She  kept  up  this 
lidden  all  through  breakfast,  and  the  meal  was 
no  sooner  cleared  away  than  she  slipped  on  a 
shawl  and  stepped  across  to  the  churchyard  to 
discuss  the  robbery. 

The  Parson  drew  a  chair  to  the  window,  lit  his 
pipe,  and  pulled  out  his  pocket-Bible  to  choose  a 
[181] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

text  for  his  next  day's  sermon.  But  he  couldn't 
fix  his  thoughts.  Try  how  he  would,  they  kept 
harking  back  to  his  travels  in  the  post-chaise, 
and  his  wife's  story,  and  those  unaccountable 
flags  and  splashes  of  whitewash.  His  pipe  went 
out,  and  he  was  getting  up  to  find  a  light  for  it, 
when  just  at  that  moment  the  garden-gate  rat- 
tled, and,  looking  down  the  path  towards  the 
sound,  his  eyes  fell  on  a  square-cut,  fierce-look- 
ing man  in  blue,  standing  there  with  a  dirty  bag 
in  one  hand  and  a  sheaf  of  tools  over  his  right 
shoulder. 

The  man  caught  sight  of  the  Parson  at  the 
window,  and  set  down  his  tools  inside  the  gate  - 
shovel  and  pick  and  biddicks. 

"  Good-mornin' !  I  may  come  inside,  I  sup- 
pose?" says  he,  in  a  grufF  tone  of  voice.  He 
came  up  the  path  and  the  Parson  unlatched  the 
window,  which  was  one  of  the  long  sort  reaching 
down  to  the  ground. 

"My  name's  Bligh,"  said  the  visitor,  grufF  as 
before.  "You're  the  Parson,  eh  ?  Bit  of  an 
antiquarian,  I'm  given  to  understand  ?  These 
things  ought  to  be  in  your  line,  then,  and  I  hope 
they  are  not  broken:  I  carried  them  as  careful  as 
I  could."  He  opened  the  bag  and  emptied  it 
out  upon  the  table  —  an  old  earthenware  pot,  a 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

rusted  iron  ring,  four  or  five  burnt  bones,  and  a 
handful  or  so  of  ashes.  "Human,  you  see," 
said  he,  picking  up  one  of  the  bones  and  holding 
it  under  the  Parson's  nose.  "One  of  your  ancient 
Romans,  no  doubt." 

"Ancient  Romans?  Ancient  Romans?"  stam- 
mered Parson  Polwhele.  "Pray,  Sir,  where  did 
you  get  these  —  these  articles  ? " 

"By  digging  for  them,  Sir;  in  a  mound  just 
outside  that  old  Roman  camp  of  yours." 

"Roman  camp?  There's  no  Roman  camp 
within  thirty  miles  of  us  as  the  crow  flies:  and  I 
doubt  if  there's  one  within  fifty!" 

"Shows  how  much  you  know  about  it.  That's 
what  I  complain  about  in  you  parsons:  never 
glimpse  a  thing  that's  under  your  noses.  Now,  I 
come  along,  making  no  pretence  to  be  an  anti- 
quarian, and  the  first  thing  I  see  out  on  your 
headland  yonder,  is  a  Roman  camp,  with  a  great 
mound  beside  it " 

"No  such  thing,  Sir!"  the  Parson  couldn't  help 
interrupting. 

Bligh  stared  at  him  for  a  moment,  like  a  man 
hurt  in  his  feelings  but  keeping  hold  on  his  Chris- 
tian compassion.  "Look  here,"  he  said;  "you 
mayn't  know  it,  but  I'm  a  bad  man  to  contradict. 
This  here  Roman  camp,  as  I  was  sayin' " 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

"  If  you  mean  Little  Dinnis  Camp,  Sir,  'tis  as 
round  as  my  hat." 

"Damme,  if  you  interrupt  again " 

"But  I  will.  Here,  in  my  own  parlour,  I  tell 
you  that  Little  Dinnis  is  as  round  as  my  hat!" 

"All  right;  don't  lose  your  temper,  shouting 
out  what  I  never  denied.  Round  or  square,  it 
don't  matter  a  ha'porth  to  me.  This  here  round 
Roman  camp " 

"But  I  tell  you,  once  more,  there's  no  such 
thing!"  cried  the  Parson,  stamping  his  foot. 
"The  Romans  never  made  a  round  camp  in  their 
lives.  Little  Dinnis  is  British;  the  encampment's 
British;  the  mound,  as  you  call  it,  is  a  British 
barrow;  and  as  for  you " 

"As  for  me,"  thunders  Bligh,  "I'm  British  too, 
and  don't  you  forget  it.  Confound  you,  Sir! 
What  the  devil  do  I  care  for  your  pettifogging 
bones  ?  I'm  a  British  sailor,  Sir;  I  come  to  your 
God-forsaken  parish  on  a  Government  job,  and  I 
happen  on  a  whole  shopful  of  ancient  remains. 
In  pure  kindness  —  pure  kindness,  mark  you  — 
I  interrupt  my  work  to  dig  'em  up;  and  this  is  all 
the  thanks  I  get!" 

"Thanks!"  fairly  yelled  the  Parson.  "You 
ought  to  be  horsewhipped,  rather,  for  disturbing 
an  ancient  tomb  that's  been  the  apple  of  my  eye 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

ever  since  I  was  inducted  to  this  parish!"  Then, 
as  Bligh  drew  back,  staring:  "My  poor  barrow!" 
he  went  on;  "my  poor,  ransacked  barrow!  But 

there  may  be  something  to  save  yet "  and  he 

fairly  ran  for  the  door,  leaving  Bligh  at  a  stand- 
still. 

For  awhile  the  man  stood  there  like  a  fellow 
in  a  trance,  opening  and  shutting  his  mouth,  with 
his  eyes  set  on  the  doorway  where  the  Parson  had 
disappeared.  Then,  his  temper  overmastering 
him,  with  a  sweep  of  his  arm  he  sent  the  whole 
bag  of  tricks  flying  on  to  the  floor,  kicked  them  to 
right  and  left  through  the  garden,  slammed  the 
gate,  pitched  across  the  road,  and  flung  through 
the  churchyard  towards  the  river  like  a  whirlwind. 

Now,  while  this  was  happening,  Mrs.  Polwhele 
had  picked  her  way  across  the  churchyard,  and 
after  chatting  a  bit  with  my  grandfather  over  the 
theft  of  his  tools,  had  stepped  into  the  church 
to  see  that  the  place,  and  specially  the  table  and 
communion-rails  and  the  parsonage  pew,  was 
neat  and  dusted,  this  being  her  regular  custom 
after  a  trip  to  Plymouth.  And  no  sooner  was 
she  within  the  porch  than  who  should  come 
dandering  along  the  road  but  Arch'laus  Spry. 
The  road,  as  you  know,  goes  downhill  after  pass- 
ing the  parsonage  gate,  and  holds  on  round  the 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

churchyard  wall  like  a  sunk  way,  the  soil  inside 
being  piled  up  to  the  wall's  coping.  But,  my 
grandfather  being  still  behindhand  with  his  job, 
his  head  and  shoulders  showed  over  the  grave's 
edge.  So  Arch'laus  Spry  caught  sight  of  him. 

"Why,  you're  the  very  man  I  was  looking  for," 
says  Arch'laus,  stopping. 

"Death  halts  for  no  man,"  answers  my  grand- 
father, shovelling  away. 

"That  furrin'  fellow  is  somewheres  in  this 
neighbourhood  at  this  very  moment,"  says  Arch'- 
laus, wagging  his  head.  "  I  saw  his  boat  moored 
down  by  the  Passage  as  I  landed.  And  I've  a-got 
something  to  report.  He  was  up  and  off  by  three 
o'clock  this  morning,  and  knocked  up  the  Widow 
Polkinghorne,  trying  to  borrow  a  pick  and  shovel." 

"Pick  and  shovel!"  My  grandfather  stopped 
working  and  slapped  his  thigh.  "Then  he's  the 
man  that  Ve  walked  off  with  mine:  and  a  biddicks 
too." 

"He  said  nothing  of  a  biddicks,  but  he's  quite 
capable  of  it." 

"Surely  in  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death," 
said  my  grandfather.  "I  was  al'ays  inclined  to 
believe  that  text,  and  now  I'm  sure  of  it.  Let's 
go  and  see  the  Parson." 

He  tossed  his  shovel  on  to  the  loose  earth  above 
[186] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

the  grave  and  was  just  about  to  scramble  out 
after  it  when  the  churchyard  gate  shook  on  its 
hinges  and  across  the  path  and  by  the  church 
porch  went  Bligh,  as  I've  said,  like  a  whirlwind. 
Arch'laus  Spry,  that  had  pulled  his  chin  up  level 
with  the  coping,  ducked  at  the  sight  of  him,  and 
even  my  grandfather  clucked  down  a  little  in  the 
grave  as  he  passed. 

"The  very  man!"  said  Spry,  under  his  breath. 

"The  wicked  flee,  whom  no  man  pursueth," 
said  my  grandfather,  looking  after  the  man;  but 
Bligh  turned  his  head  neither  to  the  right  hand 
nor  to  the  left. 

"  Oh  —  oh  —  oh ! "  squealed  a  voice  inside  the 
church. 

"Whatever  was  that,"  cries  Arch'laus  Spry, 
giving  a  jump.  They  both  stared  at  the  porch. 

"Oh  —  oh  —  oh!"  squealed  the  voice  again. 

"  It  certainly  comes  from  inside,"  said  Arch'laus 
Spry. 

"It's  Mrs.  Polwhele!"  said  my  grandfather; 
"  and  by  the  noise  of  it  she's  having  hysterics." 

And  with  that  he  scrambled  up  and  ran;  and 
Spry  heaved  himself  over  the  wall  and  followed. 
And  there,  in  the  south  aisle,  they  found  Mrs. 
Polwhele  lying  back  in  a  pew  and  kicking  like  a 
stallion  in  a  loose-box. 

[•87] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

My  grandfather  took  her  by  the  shoulders, 
while  Spry  ran  for  the  jug  of  holy  water  that  stood 
by  the  font.  As  it  happened,  'twas  empty:  but 
the  sight  of  it  fetched  her  to,  and  she  raised  her- 
self up  with  a  shiver. 

"The  Frenchman!"  she  cries  out,  pointing. 
"The  Frenchman  —  on  the  coach!  O  Lord,  de- 
liver us!" 

For  a  moment,  as  you'll  guess,  my  grandfather 
was  puzzled:  but  he  stared  where  the  poor  lady 
pointed,  and  after  a  bit  he  began  to  understand. 
I  daresay  you've  seen  our  church,  Sir,  and  if  so, 
you  must  have  taken  note  of  a  monstrous  fine 
fig-tree  growing  out  of  the  south  wall  —  "the 
marvel  of  Manaccan,"  we  used  to  call  it.  When 
they  restored  the  church  the  other  day  nobody 
had  the  heart  to  destroy  the  tree,  for  all  the 
damage  it  did  to  the  building  —  having  come 
there  the  Lord  knows  how,  and  grown  there 
since  the  Lord  knows  when.  So  they  took  and 
patched  up  the  wall  around  it,  and  there  it  thrives. 
But  in  the  times  I'm  telling  of,  it  had  split  the 
wall  so  that  from  inside  you  could  look  straight 
through  the  crack  into  the  churchyard;  and  'twas 
to  this  crack  that  Mrs.  Polwhele's  finger  pointed. 

"Eh?"  said  my  grandfather.     "The  furriner* 

*Jn  Cornwall  a  "foreigner"  is  anyone  from  east  of  the  Tamar. 

[188] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

that  went  by  just  now,  was  it  he  that  frightened  ye, 
Ma'am?" 

Mrs.  Polwhele  nodded. 

"But  what  put  it  into  your  head  that  he's  a 
Frenchman  ?" 

"Because  French  is  his  language.  With  these 
very  ears  I  heard  him  talk  it!  He  joined  the 
coach  at  Torpoint,  and  when  I  spoke  him  fair  in 
honest  English  not  a  word  could  he  answer  me. 
Oh,  Calvin,  Calvin!  what  have  I  done  —  a  poor 
weak  woman  —  to  be  mixed  up  in  these  plots  and 
invasions  ?" 

But  my  grandfather  couldn't  stop  to  answer 
that  question,  for  a  terrible  light  was  breaking 
in  upon  him.  "A  Frenchman?"  he  called  out. 
"And  for  these  twenty-four  hours  he's  been 
marking  out  the  river  and  taking  soundings!" 
He  glared  at  Arch'laus  Spry,  and  Arch'laus 
dropped  the  brazen  ewer  upon  the  pavement  and 
smote  his  forehead.  "The  Devil,"  says  he,  "is 
among  us,  having  great  wrath!" 

"And  for  aught  we  know,"  says  my  grandfather, 
speaking  in  a  slow  and  fearsome  whisper,  "the 
French  ships  may  be  hanging  off  the  coast  while 
we'm  talking  here ! " 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  us,"  cried  Mrs.  Pol- 
whele, sitting  up  stiff  in  the  pew,  "that  this  man 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

has  been  mapping  out  the  river  under  your  very 
noses!" 

"He  has,  Ma'am.  Oh,  I  see  it  all!  What 
likelier  place  could  they  choose  on  the  whole 
coast  ?  And  from  here  to  Falmouth  what  is  it 
but  a  step  ?" 

"  Let  them  that  be  in  Judaea  flee  to  the  moun- 
tains," said  Arch'laus  Spry  solemn-like. 

"And  me  just  home  from  Plymouth  with  a  fine 
new  roasting-jack!"  chimed  in  Mrs.  Polwhele. 
"As  though  the  day  of  wrath  weren't  bad  enough 
without  that  waste  o'  money!  Run,  Calvin - 
run  and  tell  the  Vicar  this  instant  —  no,  no, 
don't  leave  me  behind!  Take  me  home,  that's 
a  good  man:  else  I  shall  faint  at  my  own  shadow!" 

Well,  they  hurried  off  to  the  Vicarage:  but,  of 
course,  there  was  no  Parson  to  be  found,  for  by 
this  time  he  was  half-way  towards  Little  Dinnis, 
and  running  like  a  madman  under  the  hot  sun  to 
see  what  damage  had  befallen  his  dearly-loved 
camp.  The  servants  hadn't  seen  him  leave  the 
house;  ne'er  a  word  could  they  tell  of  him  except 
that  Martha,  the  cook,  when  she  cleared  away 
the  breakfast  things,  had  left  him  seated  in  his 
chair  and  smoking. 

"But  what's  the  meaning  of  this?"  cried  out 
Mrs.    Polwhele,   pointing  to   the   tablecloth   that 
[190] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

Bligh  had  pulled  all  awry  in  his  temper.  "And 
the  window  open  too!" 

"And  —  hulloa!"  says  my  grandfather,  staring 
across  the  patch  of  turf  outside.  "Surely  here's 
signs  of  a  violent  struggle.  Human,  by  the  look 
of  it,"  says  he,  picking  up  a  thigh-bone  and  hold- 
ing it  out  towards  Mrs.  Polwhele. 

She  began  to  shake  like  a  leaf.  "Oh,  Calvin!" 
she  gasps  out.  "Oh,  Calvin,  not  in  this  short 
time  —  it  couldn't  be!" 

"Charred,  too,"  says  my  grandfather,  inspect- 
ing it:  and  with  that  they  turned  at  a  cry  from 
Martha  the  cook,  that  was  down  on  hands  and 
knees  upon  the  carpet. 

"Ashes!  See  here,  mistress  —  ashes  all  over 
your  best  carpet!" 

The  two  women  stared  at  the  fireplace:  but,  of 
course,  that  told  them  nothing,  being  empty,  as 
usual  at  the  time  of  year,  with  only  a  few  shavings 
stuck  about  it  by  way  of  ornament.  Martha, 
the  first  to  pick  up  her  wits,  dashed  out  into  the 
front  hall. 

"  Gone  without  his  hat,  too ! "  she  fairly  screamed, 
running  her  eye  along  the  row  of  pegs. 

Mrs.  Polwhele  clasped  her  hands.  "In  the 
midst  of  life  we  are  in  death,"  said  Arch'laus 
Spry:  "that's  my  opinion  if  you  ask  it." 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

"Gone!  Gone  without  his  hat,  like  the  snuff 
of  a  candle!"  Mrs.  Polwhele  dropped  into  a 
chair  and  rocked  herself  and  moaned. 

My  grandfather  banged  his  fist  on  the  table.  He 
never  could  abide  the  sight  of  a  woman  in  trouble. 

"Missus,"  says  he,  "if  the  Parson's  anywhere 
alive,  we'll  find  'en:  and  if  that  Frenchman  be 
Old  Nick  himself,  he  shall  rue  the  day  he  ever 
set  foot  in  Manaccan  parish!  Come'st  along, 
Arch'laus  - 

He  took  Spry  by  the  arm  and  marched  him  out 
and  down  the  garden  path.  There,  by  the  gate, 
what  should  his  eyes  light  upon  but  his  own  stolen 
tools!  But  by  this  time  all  power  of  astonish- 
ment was  dried  up  within  him.  He  just  raised 
his  eyes  aloft,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Let  the  sky 
open  and  rain  miracles!"  and  then  and  there  he 
saw,  coming  down  the  road,  the  funeral  that  both 
he  and  the  Parson  had  clean  forgotten. 

The  corpse  was  an  old  man  called  'Pollas 
Hockaday;  and  Sam  Trewhella,  a  fish-curer  that 
had  married  Hockaday's  eldest  daughter,  walked 
next  behind  the  coffin  as  chief  mourner.  My 
grandfather  waited  by  the  gate  for  the  procession 
to  come  by,  and  with  that  Trewhella  caught  sight 
of  him,  and,  says  he,  taking  down  the  handker- 
chief from  his  nose  — 

[192] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

"Well,  you're  a  pretty  fellow,  I  must  say! 
What  in  thunder  d'ee  mean  by  not  tolling  the 
minute-bell  ?" 

"Take  'en  back,"  answers  my  grandfather, 
pointing  to  the  coffin.  "Take  'en  back,  'co!" 

" Eh  ?"  says  Trewhella.  "Answer  my  question, 
I  tell  'ee.  You've  hurt  my  feelings  and  the  feel- 
ings of  everyone  connected  with  the  deceased: 
and  if  this  weren't  not-azackly  the  place  for  it, 
I'd  up  and  give  you  a  dashed  good  hiding,"  says 
he. 

"Aw,  take  'en  back,"  my  grandfather  goes  on. 
"Take  'en  back,  my  dears,  and  put  'en  somewhere, 
cool  and  temporary!  The  grave's  not  digged, 
and  the  Parson's  kidnapped,  and  the  French  be 
upon  us,  and  down  by  the  river  ther's  a  furrin  spy 
taking  soundings  at  this  moment!  In  the  name 
of  King  George,"  said  he,  remembering  that  he 
was  constable,  "I  command  you  all  except  the 
females  to  come  along  and  collar  'en!" 

While  this  was  going  on,  Sir,  Bligh  had  found 
his  boat  —  which  he'd  left  by  the  shore  —  and 
was  pulling  up  the  river  to  work  off  his  rage. 
Ne'er  a  thought  had  he,  as  he  flounced  through 
the  churchyard,  of  the  train  of  powder  he  dribbled 
behind  him:  but  all  the  way  he  blew  off  steam, 
[193] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

cursing  Parson  Polwhele  and  the  whole  cloth 
from  Land's  End  to  Johnny  Groats,  and  glower- 
ing at  the  very  gates  by  the  road  as  though  he 
wanted  to  kick  'em  to  relieve  his  feelings.  But 
when  he  reached  his  boat  and  began  rowing,  by 
little  and  little  the  exercise  tamed  him.  With 
his  flags  and  whitewash  he'd  marked  out  most  of 
the  lines  he  wanted  for  soundings:  but  there  were 
two  creeks  he  hadn't  yet  found  time  to  explore  — 
Porthnavas,  on  the  opposite  side,  and  the  very 
creek  by  which  we're  sitting.  So,  as  he  came 
abreast  of  this  one,  he  determined  to  have  a  look 
at  it;  and  after  rowing  a  hundred  yards  or  so, 
lay  on  his  oars,  lit  his  pipe,  and  let  his  boat  drift 
up  with  the  tide. 

The  creek  was  just  the  same  lonesome  place 
that  it  is  to-day,  the  only  difference  being  that  the 
pallace*  at  the  entrance  had  a  roof  on  it  then, 
and  was  rented  by  Sam  Trewhella  —  the  same 
that  followed  old  Hockaday's  coffin,  as  I've  told 
you.  But  above  the  pallace  the  woods  grew  close 
to  the  water's  edge,  and  lined  both  shores  with 
never  a  clearing  till  you  reached  the  end,  where 
the  cottage  stands  now  and  the  stream  comes 
down  beside  it:  in  those  days  there  wasn't  any 
cottage,  only  a  piece  of  swampy  ground.  I  don't 

*  Fish-store. 
[194] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

know  that  Bligh  saw  much  in  the  scenery,  but 
it  may  have  helped  to  soothe  his  mind:  for  by- 
and-by  he  settled  himself  on  the  bottom-boards, 
lit  another  pipe,  pulled  his  hat  over  his  nose,  and 
lay  there  blinking  at  the  sky,  while  the  boat 
drifted  up,  hitching  sometimes  in  a  bough  and 
sometimes  floating  broadside-on  to  the  current, 
until  she  reached  this  bit  of  marsh  and  took  the 
mud  very  gently. 

After  a  while,  finding  she  didn't  move,  Bligh 
lifted  his  head  for  a  look  about  him  and  found 
that  he'd  come  to  the  end  of  the  creek.  He  'put 
out  a  hand  and  felt  the  water,  that  was  almost 
luke-warm  with  running  over  the  mud.  The 
trees  shut  him  in;  not  a  living  soul  was  in  sight; 
and  by  the  quietness  he  might  have  been  a  hundred 
miles  from  anywhere.  So  what  does  my  gentle- 
man do  but  strip  himself  for  a  comfortable  bathe. 

He  folded  his  clothes  very  neatly  in  the  stern- 
sheets,  waded  out  across  the  shallows  as  naked  as 
a  babe,  and  took  to  the  water  with  so  much  de- 
light that  after  a  minute  or  so  he  must  needs  lie 
on  his  back  and  kick.  He  splashed  away,  one 
leg  after  the  other,  with  his  face  turned  towards 
the  shore,  and  was  just  on  the  point  of  rolling 
over  for  another  swim,  when,  as  he  lifted  a  leg 
for  one  last  kick,  his  eyes  fell  on  the  boat.  And 

[19$] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

there  on  the  top  of  his  clothes,  in  the  stern  of  her, 
sat  my  grandfather  sucking  a  pipe. 

Bligh  let  down  his  legs  and  stood  up,  touching 
bottom,  but  neck-deep  in  water. 

"Hi,  you  there!"  he  sings  out. 

"Wee,  wee,  parleyvou!"  my  grandfather  an- 
swers, making  use  of  pretty  well  all  the  French 
he  knew. 

"Confound  you,  Sir,  for  an  impident  dirty  dog! 
What  in  the  name  of  jiminy"  —  I  can't  give  you, 
Sir,  the  exact  words,  for  my  grandfather  could 
never  be  got  to  repeat  'em  —  "What  in  the  name 
of  jiminy  d'ee  mean  by  sitting  on  my  clothes!" 

"Wee,  wee,"  my  grandfather  took  him  up, 
calm  as  you  please.  "You  shocked  me  dreadful 
yesterday  with  your  blasphemious  talk:  but  now, 
seeing  'tis  French,  I  don't  mind  so  much.  Take 
your  time:  but  when  you  come  out  you  go  to 
prison.  Wee,  wee  —  preeson,"  says  my  grand- 
father. 

"Are  you  drunk?"  yells  Bligh.  "Get  off  my 
clothes  this  instant,  you  hobnailed  son  of  a  some- 
thing-or-other!"  And  he  began  striding  for  shore. 

"  In  the  name  of  his  Majesty  King  George  the 
Third  I  charge  you  to  come  along  quiet,"  says 
my  grandfather,  picking  up  a  stretcher. 

Bligh,  being  naked  and  unarmed,  casts  a  look 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

round  for  some  way  to  help  himself.  He  was  a 
plucky  fellow  enough  in  a  fight,  as  I've  said:  but 
I  leave  you  to  guess  what  he  felt  like  when  to 
right  and  left  of  him  the  bushes  parted,  and  forth 
stepped  half-a-dozen  men  in  black  suits  with 
black  silk  weepers  a  foot  and  a  half  wide  tied  in 
great  bunches  round  their  hats.  These  were 
Sam  Trewhella,  of  course,  and  the  rest  of  the 
funeral-party,  that  had  left  the  coffin  in  a  nice 
shady  spot  inside  the  Vicarage  garden-gate,  and 
come  along  to  assist  the  law.  They  had  brought 
along  pretty  nearly  all  the  menkind  of  the  parish 
beside:  but  these,  being  in  their  work-a-day 
clothes,  didn't  appear,  and  for  a  reason  you'll 
learn  by-and-by.  All  that  Bligh  saw  was  this 
dismal  company  of  mourners  backed  by  a  rabble 
of  school-children,  the  little  ones  lining  the  shore 
and  staring  at  him  fearsomely  with  their  fingers  in 
their  mouths. 

For  the  moment  Bligh  must  have  thought  him- 
self dreaming.  But  there  they  stood,  the  men  in 
black  and  the  crowd  of  children,  and  my  grand- 
father with  the  stretcher  ready,  and  the  green 
woods  so  quiet  all  round.  And  there  he  stood 
up  to  the  ribs  in  water,  and  the  tide  and  his  temper 
rising. 

"Look  here,  you  something-or-other  yokels," 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

he  called  out,  "if  this  is  one  of  your  village  jokes, 
I  promise  you  shall  smart  for  it.  Leave  the  spot 
this  moment,  fetch  that  idiot  out  of  the  boat,  and 
take  away  the  children.  I  want  to  dress,  and  it 
isn't  decent!" 

"Mounseer,"  answers  my  grandfather,  "I  dare- 
say you've  a-done  it  for  your  country;  but  we've 
a-caught  you,  and  now  you  must  go  to  prison  - 
wee,  wee,  to   preeson,"   he  says,  lisping  it   in   a 
Frenchified  way  so  as  to  make  himself  understood. 

Bligh  began  to  foam.  "The  longer  you  keep 
up  this  farce,  my  fine  fellows,  the  worse  you'll 
smart  for  it!  There's  a  magistrate  in  this  parish, 
as  I  happen  to  know." 

"There  was"  said  my  grandfather;  "but  we've 
strong  reasons  to  believe  he's  been  made  away 
with." 

"The  only  thing  we  could  find  of  'en,"  put  in 
Arch'laus  Spry,  "was  a  shin-bone  and  a  pint  of 
ashes.  I  don't  know  if  the  others  noticed  it,  but 
to  my  notion  there  was  a  sniff  of  brimstone  about 
the  premises;  and  I've  always  been  remarkable 
for  my  sense  of  smell." 

"You  won't  deny,"  my  grandfather  went  on, 
"that  you've  been  making  a  map  of  this  here 
river;  for  here  it  is  in  your  tail-coat  pocket." 

"You  insolent  ruffian,  put  that  down  at  once! 
[198] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

I  tell  you  that  I'm  a  British  officer  and  a  gentle- 
man!" 

"And  a  Papist,"  went  on  my  grandfather, 
holding  up  a  ribbon  with  a  bullet  threaded  to  it. 
('Twas  the  bullet  Bligh  used  to  weigh  out  allow- 
ances with  on  his  voyage  in  the  open  boat  after 
the  mutineers  had  turned  him  adrift  from  the 
Bounty,  and  he  wore  it  ever  after.)  "See  here, 
friends:  did  you  ever  know  an  honest  Protestant 
to  wear  such  a  thing  about  him  inside  his  clothes  ?" 

"Whether  you're  a  joker  or  a  numskull  is 
more  than  I  can  fathom,"  says  Bligh;  "but  for 
the  last  time  I  warn  you  I'm  a  British  officer,  and 
you'll  go  to  jail  for  this  as  sure  as  eggs." 

"The  question  is,  Will  you  surrender  and  come 
along  quiet  ?" 

"No,  I  won't,"  says  Bligh,  sulky  as  a  bear; 
"not  if  I  stay  here  all  night!" 

With  that  my  grandfather  gave  a  wink  to  Sam 
Trewhella,  and  Sam  Trewhella  gave  a  whistle, 
and  round  the  point  came  Trewhella's  sean-boat 
that  the  village  lads  had  fetched  out  and  launched 
from  his  store  at  the  mouth  of  the  creek.  Four 
men  pulled  her  with  all  their  might;  in  the  stern 
stood  Trewhella's  foreman,  Jim  Bunt,  with  his 
two-hundred-fathom  net:  and  along  the  shore 
came  running  the  rest  of  the  lads  to  see  the  fun. 
[199] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

"Heva,  heva!"  yelled  Sam  Trewhella,  waving 
his  hat  with  the  black  streamers. 

The  sean-boat  swooped  up  to  Bligh  with  a  rush, 
and  then,  just  as  he  faced  upon  it  with  his  fists  up, 
to  die  fighting,  it  swerved  off  on  a  curve  round 
him,  and  Jim  Bunt  began  shooting  the  scan 
hand  over  hand  like  lightning.  Then  the  poor 
man  understood,  and  having  no  mind  to  be  rolled 
up  and  afterwards  tucked  in  a  sean-net,  he  let 
out  an  oath,  ducked  his  head,  and  broke  for  the 
shore  like  a  bull.  But  'twas  no  manner  of  use. 
As  soon  as  he  touched  land  a  dozen  jumped  for 
him  and  pulled  him  down.  They  handled  him  as 
gentle  as  they  could,  for  he  fought  with  fists,  legs, 
and  teeth,  and  his  language  was  awful:  but  my 
grandfather  in  his  foresight  had  brought  along  a 
couple  of  wainropes,  and  within  ten  minutes  they 
had  my  gentleman  trussed,  heaved  him  into  the 
boat,  covered  him  over,  and  were  rowing  him  oflF 
and  down  the  creek  to  land  him  at  Helford  quay. 

By  this  'twas  past  noon;  and  at  one  o'clock,  or 
a  little  before,  Parson  Polwhele  come  striding 
along  home  from  Little  Dinnis.  He  had  tied  a 
handkerchief  about  his  head  to  keep  off  the  sun; 
his  hands  and  knees  were  coated  with  earth;  and 
he  sweated  like  a  furze-bush  in  a  mist,  for  the 
[  200] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

footpath  led  through  cornfields  and  the  heat  was 
something  terrible.  Moreover,  he  had  just  called 
the  funeral  to  mind;  and  this  and  the  damage  he'd 
left  at  Little  Dinnis  fairly  hurried  him  into  a 
fever. 

But  worse  was  in  store.  As  he  drew  near  the 
Parsonage,  he  spied  a  man  running  towards  him: 
and  behind  the  man  the  most  dreadful  noises 
were  sounding  from  the  house.  The  Parson 
came  to  a  halt  and  swayed  where  he  stood. 

"Oh,  Calvin!  Calvin!"  he  cried  —  for  the  man 
running  was  my  grandfather  -  "  don't  try  to 
break  it  gently,  but  let  me  know  the  worst!" 

"Oh,  blessed  day!  Oh,  fearful  and  yet  blessed 
day!"  cries  my  grandfather,  almost  catching  him 
in  both  arms.  "So  you're  not  dead!  So  you're 
not  dead,  the  Lord  be  praised,  but  only  hurt!" 

"Hurt  ?"  says  the  Parson.     "Not  a  bit  of  it  - 
or  only  in  my  feelings.     Oh,  'tis  the  handkerchief 
you're  looking  at  ?     I  put  that  up  against  sun- 
stroke.    But  whatever  do  these  dreadful  sounds 
mean  ?    Tell  me  the  worst,  Calvin,  I  implore  you! " 

"Oh,  as  for  that,"  says  my  grandfather  cheer- 
fully, "the  Frenchman's  the  worst  by  a  long  way 
—  not  but  what  your  good  lady  made  noise  enough 
when  she  thought  you'd  been  made  away  with: 
and  afterwards,  when  she  went  upstairs  and, 
[201] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

taking  a  glance  out  of  window,  spied  a  long  black 
coffin  laid  out  under  the  lilac  bushes,  I'm  told  you 
could  hear  her  a  mile  away.  But  she've  been 
weakening  this  half-hour:  her  nature  couldn't 
keep  it  up:  whereas  the  longer  we  keep  that 
Frenchman,  the  louder  he  seems  to  bellow." 

"Heaven  defend  us,  Calvin!"  —  the  Parson's 
eyes  fairly  rolled  in  his  head  — "  are  you  gone 
clean  crazed  ?  Frenchman!  What  Frenchman  ?" 

"The  same  that  frightened  Mrs.  Polwhele, 
Sir,  upon  the  coach.  We  caught  him  drawing 
maps  of  the  river,  and  very  nigh  tucked  him  in 
Sam  Trewhella's  scan:  and  now  he's  in  your  tool- 
shed  right  and  tight,  and  here's  the  key,  Sir, 
making  so  bold,  that  you  gave  me  this  morning. 
But  I  didn't  like  to  take  him  into  the  house,  with 
your  good  lady  tumbling  out  of  one  fit  into  another. 
Hark  to  'en,  now!  Would  you  ever  believe  one 
man  could  make  such  a  noise." 

"Fits!  My  poor,  dear,  tender  Mary  having 
fits!"  The  Parson  broke  away  for  the  house 
and  dashed  upstairs  three  steps  at  a  time:  and 
when  she  caught  sight  of  him,  Mrs.  Polwhele  let 
out  a  louder  squeal  than  ever.  But  the  next 
moment  she  was  hanging  round  his  neck,  and 
laughing  and  sobbing  by  turns.  And  how  long 
they'd  have  clung  to  one  another  there's  no  know- 
[  202] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

ing,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  language  pouring 
from  the  tool-shed. 

"My  dear,"  said  the  Parson,  holding  himself 
up  and  listening,  "I  don't  think  that  can  possibly 
be  a  Frenchman.  He's  too  fluent." 

Mrs.  Polwhele  listened  too,  but  after  a  while 
she  was  forced  to  cover  her  face  with  both  hands. 
"Oh,  Richard,  I've  often  heard  'em  described  as 
gay,  but  —  but  they  can't  surely  be  so  gay  as  all 
that!" 

The  Parson  eased  her  into  an  armchair  and 
went  downstairs  to  the  courtyard,  and  there,  as 
you  may  suppose,  he  found  the  parish  gathered. 

"Stand  back  all  of  you,"  he  ordered.  "I've  a 
notion  that  some  mistake  has  been  committed: 
but  you  had  best  hold  yourselves  ready  in  case  the 
prisoner  tries  to  escape." 

"But,  Parson  dear,  you're  never  going  to  un- 
lock that  door!"  cried  my  grandfather. 

"  If  you'll  stand  by  me,  Calvin,"  says  the  Par- 
son, plucky  as  ginger,  and  up  he  steps  to  the  very 
door,  all  the  parish  holding  its  breath. 

He  tapped  once  —  no  answer:  twice  —  and  no 
more  answer  than  before.  There  was  a  small 
trap  open  in  the  roof  and  through  this  the  language 
kept  pouring  with  never  a  stop,  only  now  and  then 
a  roar  like  a  bull's.  But  at  the  third  knock  it 
[203] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

died  down  to  a  sort  of  rumbling,  and  presently 
came  a  shout,  "Who's  there?" 

"A  clergyman  and  justice  of  the  peace," 
answers  the  Parson. 

"I'll  have  your  skin  for  this!" 

"  But  you'll  excuse  me 

"I'll  have  your  skin  for  this,  and  your  blood 
in  a  bottle!  I'm  a  British  officer  and  a  gentle- 
man, and  I'll  have  you  stuffed  and  put  in  a  glass 
case,  so  sure  as  my  name's  Bligh!" 

"Bligh?"  says  the  Parson,  opening  the  door. 

"Any  relation  to  the  Blighs  of  St.  Tudy  ?  Oh, 
no  —  it  can't  be!"  he  stammered,  taken  all  aback 
to  see  the  man  stark  naked  on  the  threshold. 
"  Why  —  why,  you're  the  gentleman  that  called 
this  morning!"  he  went  on,  the  light  breaking  in 
upon  him:  "excuse  me,  I  recognise  you  by  —  by 
the  slight  scar  on  your  face." 

Well,  Sir,  there  was  nothing  for  Bligh  to  do  - 
the  whole  parish  staring  at  him  —  but  to  slip  back 
into  the  shed  and  put  on  the  clothes  my  grand- 
father handed  in  at  the  door:  and  while  he  was 
dressing  the  whole  truth  came  out.  I  won't  say 
that  he  took  the  Parson's  explanations  in  a  nice 
spirit:  for  he  vowed  to  have  the  law  on  every  one 
concerned.  But  that  night  he  walked  back  to 
[204] 


FRENCHMAN'S  CREEK 

Falmouth  and  took  the  London  coach.  As  for 
Helford  River,  'twasn't  charted  that  year  nor  for 
a  score  of  years  after.  And  now  you  know  how 
this  creek  came  by  its  name;  and  I'll  say  again,  as 
I  began,  that  a  bad  temper  is  an  affliction,  who- 
ever owns  it. 


[205] 


THE  MAN   BEHIND  THE 
CURTAIN 

AN   EXTRACT   FROM  THE   MEMOIRS   OF  GABRIEL 
FOOT,  HIGHWAYMAN 

I  SIT  down  to  this  chapter  of  my  Memoirs  with 
an  unwonted  relish,  because  it  exhibits  me  as  an 
instrument  in  the  hands  of  Providence.  Doubt- 
less, in  our  business,  we  perform  that  function 
oftener  than  the  law  recognises,  but  seldom  so 
directly,  so  unequivocally,  as  in  the  adventure  I 
shall  now  relate.  And  I  say  this,  not  because  it 
left  me  with  a  title  to  one  of  the  neatest  little 
estates  in  the  West  of  England,  but  because  I, 
the  one  man  necessary  to  the  situation,  dropped 
upon  it  (so  to  speak)  with  my  hands  in  my  pockets. 
I  had  never  before  happened  within  thirty  miles 
of  Tregarrick  town :  I  walked  in  at  one  end  pur- 
posing only  to  walk  out  at  the  other:  and,  but  for 
a  child's  practical  joke,  I  had  done  so  and  for- 
gotten the  place.  It  was  touch  and  go,  in  short: 
the  sort  of  thing  to  set  you  speculating  on  the 
possible  extent  of  man's  missed  opportunities. 
[207] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

I  had  stepped  ashore,  after  a  voyage  from  Hull 
(undertaken  from  expedience  and  not  for  health), 
upon  the  Market  Strand  at  Falmouth,  with  one 
shilling  and  fourpence  in  my  pocket.  I  have 
been  in  lower  water,  but  never  with  such  a  job 
before  me;  and  I  started  to  tramp  it  back  to 
London  with  little  more  than  a  dog's  determina- 
tion to  get  there  somehow.  The  third  afternoon 
found  me  in  Tregarrick,  wet  through,  sullen,  and 
moderately  hungry.  The  time  of  year  was  Octo- 
ber: all  day  it  had  been  raining  and  blowing 
chilly  from  the  north-west;  and  traffic  had  de- 
serted the  unlovely  Fore  Street  when,  as  the 
town-clock  chimed  a  quarter  to  five,  I  passed  the 
windows  and  open  archway  of  the  Red  Hart 
Hotel.  A  gust  from  the  archway  brought  me  up 
staggering  and  clutching  my  hat:  I  faced  round  to 
it,  and,  in  so  doing,  caught  a  momentary  glimpse, 
above  the  wire  blind  in  a  lower  window,  of  a  bald- 
headed  man  within  standing  with  his  back  to  the 
street;  and  at  the  same  instant  heard  a  coin  drop 
on  the  pavement  behind  me. 

A  richer  man  would  have  halted,  turned  and 
scanned  the  pavement  as  I  did.  But  a  richer 
man  would  probably  have  taken  longer  to  assure 
himself  that  nothing  had  been  lost  from  his  pocket, 
and  would  certainly  have  taken  longer  to  suspect 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

that  the  coin  might  have  been  tossed  to  him  in 
charity.  I  flung  a  glance  up  at  the  window  over- 
head, and  spied  a  penny  dangling  over  the  sill  by  a 
string. 

At  once  I  recognised  the  secular  jest;  and 
stepped  across  the  roadway  to  get  a  look  at  the 
performer.  As  I  did  so,  an  elderly  man  in  an 
Inverness  cape  and  rusty  hat  and  suit  emerged 
briskly  from  the  archway  of  the  inn,  glanced  up 
at  the  weather,  and  passed  along  the  pavement 
beneath  the  window. 

Thereupon,  I  saw  the  trick  played  to  perfection. 
A  curly-headed  youngster  popped  into  view, 
leaned  out,  rang  the  coin  down  at  the  very  heels 
of  the  pedestrian,  and  whisked  it  as  nimbly  up. 
The  man  whipped  round  and,  seeing  nothing, 
pulled  out  a  pair  of  spectacles  and  began  to  adjust 
them.  I  heard  the  youngster  chuckle  overhead  as 
he  stooped  and  a  deflected  gust  from  the  archway, 
skimming  his  hat  into  the  gutter,  revealed  the  same 
bald  head  I  had  observed  above  the  wire  blind. 

Just  then,  three  other  faces  appeared;  one 
above  the  same  blind  and  two  at  the  upper  window 
behind  the  child.  And  a  moment  later  I  had 
spun  right-about  on  my  heel  and  was  apparently 
in  deep  study  of  a  damp  placard  upon  a  hoard- 
ing opposite. 

[209] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

The  two  faces  at  the  upper  window  were  in- 
teresting, had  there  been  time  to  consider  them; 
and  one  —  that  of  a  lady,  obviously  the  child's 
mother  —  struck  me  as  uncommonly  beautiful, 
though  pale  and  desperately  sad.  Beside  her 
stood  a  man,  as  obviously  the  father;  a  handsome 
gentleman,  with  the  flushed  face  and  glassy  stare 
of  a  drunkard.  He  stood  there  chuckling  at  the 
trick,  and  even  the  lady  was  smiling  indulgently 
until  she  leaned  out  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
victim:  whereupon,  with  a  sudden  terrified  snatch, 
she  drew  the  boy  back  from  the  window,  and  out 
of  sight. 

It  was  then,  as  I  looked  at  the  bald-headed 
man,  seeking  some  explanation  of  her  terror, 
that  I  caught  sight  of  the  face  staring  over  the 
wire  blind  in  the  lower  window,  and  lost  not  a 
second  in  presenting  my  back  to  it. 

It  belonged  to  an  old  acquaintance  of  mine. 
"Acquaintance,"  I  say,  because  Robert  Leggat 
and  I  had  never  been  able  to  stomach  each  other. 
There  was  perhaps  a  trifle  too  much  of  the  gentle- 
man about  both  of  us  —  enough,  at  any  rate,  to 
suggest  rivalry,  though  we  hunted  different  game. 
"Buck"  Leggat  was  by  gifts  and  election  a 
sedentary  scoundrel,  with  a  tongue  and  a  presence 
fatally  plausible  among  women  and  clergymen, 
[210] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

and  a  neat  adaptable  pen.  Whence  he  came,  or 
of  what  upbringing,  I  could  never  discover.  I 
had  heard  some  hint  of  an  Oxford  education,  but 
he  never  alluded  to  that  University  in  my  com- 
pany. Flash  notes  had  brought  him  to  the  Old 
Bailey,  and  then  his  elegant  deportment  and  a 
nice  point  of  circumstantial  evidence  had  saved 
his  neck.  This  was  about  four  years  ago,  and  I 
had  supposed  him  to  be  somewhere  in  the  Plan- 
tations when  his  bad  handsome  face  confounded 
me  across  Tregarrick  Fore  Street.  He  wore  a 
clergyman's  bands,  too. 

By  good  luck  he  had  not  recognised  me,  but 
was  occupied  with  the  bald-headed  man  who  still 
groped  on  the  pavement.  The  placard  which  I 
appeared  to  be  studying  announced  the  Sale  by 
Auction  of  a  considerable  country  estate,  and  my 
eyes  roamed  among  such  words  as  "farms," 
"tenements,"  "messuages,"  "acres,"  while  I 
cast  up  the  possible  profit  of  my  discovery.  Here 
was  I,  pretty  hungry,  with  barely  the  coin  for  a 
night's  lodging.  Here  was  Leggat,  escaped  con- 
vict, lording  it  in  the  coffee-room  of  a  hotel, 
masquerading  as  a  parson;  therefore  up  to  some 
game  —  a  bold  one  —  by  the  look  of  it  a  paying 
one.  Decidedly  I  ought,  with  a  little  prudence, 
to  handle  a  percentage. 

[211] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

I  edged  away  from  the  hoarding  to  the  shop- 
front  on  my  left  —  a  watchmaker's;  and  so,  still 
presenting  my  back  to  the  Red  Hart,  past  a  sad- 
dler's, a  tailor's,  the  entrance  of  the  County  Hall, 
and  the  Town  Clerk's  office.  Here,  out  of  view 
from  Leggat's  window,  I  turned,  stepped  across 
the  street  into  the  hotel  archway,  and  walked 
boldly  into  the  coffee-room  which  opened  out  of 
it  on  the  left. 

Leggat  had  disappeared.  The  room  in  fact 
was  empty. 

I  rang  the  bell,  and  after  some  minutes  it  was 
answered  by  a  waitress,  a  decent  girl,  though 
somewhat  towzled. 

"There  was  a  clergyman  here  a  moment 
since,"  said  I. 

"That  will  be  Mr.  Addison.  Do  you  wish  to 
see  him?"  She  eyed  me  with  no  great  favour, 
and  indeed  my  clothes  ill  agreed  with  the  respect- 
able dinginess  of  the  coffee-room. 

"So  Addison's  the  name!"  thought  I,  "and  a 
pretty  good  one  too.  I  wonder  if  Leggat  has  the 
face  to  claim  descent  from  the  essayist.  He's 
capable  of  it."  I  pulled  out  my  only  shilling. 
"Well,  yes,  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  him:  but 
I'll  sit  down  and  wait  till  he  comes,  and  mean- 
while you  might  bring  me  a  glass  of  rum  hot, 
[212] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

with  one  slice  of  lemon.  Mr.  Addison  is  staying 
the  night  here,  I  suppose  ? " 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered.  "Anyhow,  he 
won't  be  riding  home  to  Welland  till  late.  But 
hadn't  you  better  come  to  the  bar  for  your  rum  ?" 

"Well,"  said  I,  "if  it's  all  the  same  to  you,  I'll 
stay  where  I  am.  To  tell  the  truth,  my  dear,  I've 
come  to  see  Mr.  Addison  about  putting  up  my 
banns:  and  that's  a  delicate  matter,  eh!" 

Upon  this  she  began  to  eye  me  more  favourably, 
as  I  expected.  There's  an  esprit  de  corps  among 
women  —  or  an  esprit  de  sexe,  if  you  will  — 
which  softens  them  towards  the  marrying  man. 
Surrender  to  one,  surrender  to  all.  "But  you 
don't  belong  to  Welland  parish,"  said  she. 

"Quite  right.  It  takes  two  to  make  a  wed- 
ding, and  the  young  woman  belongs  to  Welland." 

"Who  is  she?" 

"Aha!"     I  winked  at  her  knowingly. 

"I  come  from  Welland  parish  myself,"  she 
went  on,  her  curiosity  fairly  piqued. 

"Then  if  you  happen  to  be  going  home  to 
church  next  Sunday  keep  your  ears  open  after 
the  second  lesson." 

She  tossed  her  chin  and  went  off  on  her  errand, 
but  returning  in  three  minutes  with  the  grog, 
must  needs  have  another  try.  "I  reckon  it's 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

Susie  Martin,"  she  declared,  and  nodded  at  me 
with  conviction  in  her  eye. 

"Well,  now,  supposing  it's  Susie  —  and,  mind 
you,  I'm  not  admitting  it  —  you  won't  forbid 
the  banns,  I  hope?" 

"La,  no!  And  I'll  wager  Mr.  Addison  won't, 
either,"  she  tittered. 

Plainly,  here  was  an  answer  worth  pondering. 
"You  seem  to  be  pretty  full  in  the  bar,  to-night  ?" 
I  observed,  casually,  to  gain  time;  and,  indeed,  a 
hubbub  of  voices  from  across  the  archway  smote 
on  our  ears  through  the  double  baize  doors. 

"The  auctioneer  is  standing  treat." 

"Oh!  —  ah,  yes  —  the  auctioneer,  to  be  sure," 
I  murmured. 

"The  sale  won't  begin  in  the  Long  Room  be- 
fore six:  he  has  half-an-hour  for  wetting  their 
whistles.  Seeming  to  me,  you'll  be  lucky  if  you 
get  Mr.  Addison  to  attend  to  your  business  be- 
fore it's  over.  But,  perhaps,"  she  added  archly, 
"you'll  like  to  have  a  word  with  Susie,  to  fill  up 
the  time  ?  Shall  I  send  her  word  that  you  are 
here  ?  I  dare  say  she'll  find  a  chance  to  slip 
down  to  you;  that  is,  if  her  mistress  attends  the 
auction." 

"But  will  she  ?"  I  asked,  doing  my  best  to  look 
wise. 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

She  nodded  sagely.  "I  shouldn't  wonder. 
She'll  want  to  look  after  the  squire;  he's  more 
than  half  drunk  already." 

"It's  plain  you're  a  clever  girl,"  I  said;  "but 
we'll  let  Susie  wait  for  a  while.  And  my  business 
can  wait  on  Mr.  Addison.  If  his  is  an  auction, 
mine  is  notoriously  a  lottery." 

"There's  one  thing  to  console  you,"  she  an- 
swered smartly  and  (in  the  light  of  later  knowledge 
I  am  bound  to  add)  wittily;  "you  aren't  drawing 
a  blank."  And  with  this  shaft  she  left  me. 

Now  the  girl's  talk  was  nothing  short  of  heathen 
Greek  to  me,  as  doubtless  it  is  to  the  reader,  and 
I  sat  for  ten  minutes  at  least  digesting  it  with  the 
aid  of  my  grog.  Here  was  Leggat,  my  quarry, 
identified  with  a  Mr.  Addison,  incumbent  or  cu- 
rate of  a  country  parish  within  riding  distance  of 
Tregarrick.  H€  was  here  to  attend  an  auction. 
My  thoughts  flew  to  the  bill  I  had  been  pretending 
to  study  half-an-hour  before;  but  unfortunately 
I  had  given  it  no  particular  attention,  and  could 
only  remember  now  that  it  advertised  an  estate 
of  good  acreage.  The  name  "Welland,"  indeed, 
struck  me  as  familiar,  but  I  could  not  refer  it  to 
the  bill,  and  must  pull  up  for  the  moment  and  try 
a  cast  upon  a  fresh  scent  —  Susie  Martin.  Mr. 
Addison,  alias  Leggat,  is  not  likely  to  forbid  her 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

banns,  whoever  she  may  be;  in  other  words, 
won't  be  sorry  to  see  her  married.  And  Susie  is 
a  servant  —  of  a  mistress  who  will  probably  be 
attending  this  auction  —  to  look  after  a  drunken 
husband,  who  presumably,  therefore,  is  also  con- 
cerned in  the  auction.  I  recalled  the  two  faces 
at  the  upper  window,  the  one  tipsy  and  the  other 
sad,  and  felt  pretty  sure  of  having  fixed  Susie's 
employers.  I  recalled  the  lady's  start  of  terror 
as  she  had  caught  sight  of  the  bald-headed  man 
below,  and  that  I  had  first  seen  the  bald  head  be- 
hind the  window  out  of  which  Leggat  had  looked 
a  minute  later.  If  the  bald-headed  man  had  been 
talking  with  Leggat,  this  might  connect  her  terror 
with  Leggat.  And  both  she  and  Leggat  were  to 
attend  the  auction.  But  what  was  this  auction  ? 
And  who  the  dickens  was  the  bald-headed  man  ? 
The  tangle  —  as  the  reader  will  admit  —  was  a 
complicated  one.  But  so  far  fortune  had  served 
me  fairly;  and  considering  the  adventure  as  a 
game,  in  my  knowledge  of  Leggat  and  his  igno- 
rance of  my  being  anywhere  in  the  neighborhood, 
I  still  held  the  two  best  trumps.  In  speculating 
on  the  possible  strength  of  these  two  cards  a  new 
opening  occurred  to  me.  I  had  come  with  the 
purpose  of  forcing  Leggat  to  buy  me  off  or  admit 
me  into  his  game.  But  might  there  not  be  more 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

profit,  as  there  would  certainly  be  less  risk,  in 
taking  a  hand  against  him  ?  I  had  no  fancy  for 
him  as  a  partner.  I  knew  him  for  an  unhealthy 
villain,  with  an  instinct  for  preying  on  the  weak, 
a  born  enemy  of  widows  and  orphans.  If  only  I 
could  discover  what  the  stakes  were,  and  what 
cards  the  other  side  held !  Well,  but  I  could  have 
a  try  for  this,  even.  I  could,  for  instance,  apply 
to  the  squire  for  a  job,  and  this  might  throw  me  in 
the  way  of  Susie  Martin. 

I  stepped  to  the  baize  door,  and  passed  out 
upon  the  archway.  Six  yards  to  the  right,  the 
Boots,  with  his  back  to  me,  was  fixing  a  ladder  to 
climb  it  and  light  the  great  lantern  over  the  en- 
trance. To  my  left  a  broad  staircase  ran  up  into 
the  darkness.  I  tip-toed  towards  it,  gained  the 
stairs,  and  mounted  them  swiftly,  but  without 
noise,  guiding  myself  by  the  handrail. 

The  stairs  ran  up  to  the  first  floor  in  two  flights, 
with  a  bend  about  half-way.  At  the  top  of  the 
second  flight  I  found  myself  facing  a  pitch-dark 
corridor.  The  rooms  facing  the  street  must  (I 
knew)  be  on  my  right;  but  as  I  groped  along,  my 
palm  found  the  recess  of  a  doorway  on  my  left,  and 
pressed  open  the  door  which  stood  just  ajar.  I 
drew  back  and  listened:  then,  hearing  no  sound, 
poked  my  head  cautiously  within. 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

The  room  was  dark,  but  the  glow  of  a  dying 
fire  at  the  farther  end  gave  me  some  idea  of  its 
dimensions.  A  faint  reflection  of  this  glow  fell 
upon  the  polished  surface  of  something  which  I 
guessed  to  be  a  mahogany  table-leg,  and,  after  a 
second  or  two,  I  perceived,  or  thought  I  perceived, 
two  heavily-curtained  windows,  reaching  almost 
to  the  top  of  the  wall  opposite. 

I  was  reconnoitring  so,  in  the  recess  of  the  door- 
way, when  I  heard  a  low  tapping  far  up  the  corri- 
dor, and  withdrew  my  head  in  time  to  see  a  door 
open  and  the  faint  ray  of  a  candle  fall  upon  a  figure 
standing  there,  about  twenty  yards  from  my  hid- 
ing-place; the  black-coated  figure  of  Mark  Leggat. 

"Hullo!"  I  said  to  myself.     "Now  for  Susie!" 

It  was  not  Susie,  however,  who  stepped  out  and, 
closing  the  door  behind  her,  confronted  Leggat, 
candle  in  hand.  It  was  the  pale  lady  I  had  seen 
at  the  window. 

They  stood  for  a  moment  conversing  —  so 
their  attitude  told  me  —  in  short  whispers;  and 
then  came  slowly  down  the  passage  towards  me, 
the  lady  appearing  to  protest  whilst  Leggat  per- 
suaded and  reassured  her.  At  first  I  took  it  for 
granted  they  would  enter  one  of  the  doors  oppo- 
site; but,  as  they  still  came  on,  I  saw  that  I  must 
either  retreat  or  be  discovered. 

[2,8] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

I  backed,  therefore,  around  the  half-open  door 
and  into  the  room.  Then,  as  their  voices  drew 
near,  it  flashed  on  me  that  this  might  be  the  room 
they  were  seeking.  I  took  three  breathless  paces 
across  it,  and  found  the  table's  edge.  Guiding 
myself  by  this,  and  guided  by  the  mercy  of  Heaven, 
which  kept  my  feet  from  striking  against  the 
furniture,  I  found  myself  within  three  yards  of 
the  window  nearest  to  the  fire-place,  with  just 
time  enough  to  make  a  dash  for  cover,  and  whip 
behind  the  curtain  before  Leggat  pushed  the 
door  wide,  and  the  pair  entered  the  room. 

"You  must  give  me  five  minutes!"  Leggat  was 
saying.  "I  tell  you  it's  not  for  my  sake,  but  for 
yours;  it's  your  last  chance!"  Then,  as  the  lady 
made  no  answer  —  "  You  did  not  believe  you  had 
another  chance?"  he  asked. 

"There  can  be  none!"  she  answered  now. 
"You  have  ruined  me;  you  have  ruined  us  all: 
and  it  was  my  fault  for  not  warning  Harry  in 
time." 

"My  dear  Ethel,"  he  began;  but  a  gesture  of 
hers  must  have  interrupted  him,  for  he  checked 
himself,  and  went  on-  "Very  well,  then,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Carthew,  if  you  prefer  it;  you  are  at 
once  too  weak  and  too  scrupulous.  A  fatal  de- 
fect, although  you  make  it  charming!  Until  too 
[219] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

late,  you  hid  from  yourself  that  you  loved  me. 
When  that  became  impossible  you  ran  for  shelter 
behind  your  vows  and  a  theory  —  which  you 
know  in  your  heart  to  be  impossible — that  I,  who 
had  ventured  so  much  for  you,  did  not  love  you." 

"Love!"  she  echoed  hoarsely.  "What  love 
could  it  have  been  that  sought  this  way?" 

"Well,  as  it  happens,  it  was  a  way.  Harry? 
Tut-tut,  with  Harry  I  was  merely  the  handiest 
excuse  for  going  to  the  devil.  Suppose  you  had 
never  set  eyes  on  me.  You  know  well  enough  he 
was  bound  to  gamble  away  Welland  sooner  or 
later,  just  as  he  will  sooner  or  later  drink  himself 
dead.  I  am  sorry  for  the  child;  but,  look  you,  I 
am  going  to  be  frank.  It  was  just  through  the 
child  I  hoped  to  get  you.  To  save  Welland  for 
him  I  believed  you  would  follow  your  heart  and 
take  my  help  with  my  love.  You  wouldn't.  You 
couldn't  help  loving  me,  but  —  as  you  put  it  - 
you  are  a  good  woman:  and  even  now,  with  the 
sale  but  an  hour  away  and  a  sot  of  a  husband 
to  lead  off  with  poverty,  you  won't." 

She  had  set  down  the  candle  on  the  table;  and 
now,  having  made  a  peephole  between  the  two 
curtains,  I  saw  her  lift  her  head  proudly. 

"No,"  she  said,  "to  my  shame  I  loved  you; 
but  you  would  buy  me,  and  I  am  not  to  be  bought." 
[  220] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

"I  know  it,"  he  answered,  and  let  out  a  grim 
laugh.  "But  on  one  point  I  am  going  to  prove 
you  mistaken.  You  believe  that  because  I  tried 
bribery  I  did  not  love  you.  You  win  by  that 
error;  but  it  is  an  error  nevertheless,  as  I  am 
going  to  prove." 

While  her  eyes  questioned  him  he  drew  a  roll 
of  notes  from  his  pocket. 

"Your  fond  brother-in-law  intends  to  buy 
Welland,"  said  he. 

"James?" 

"To  be  sure,"  he  nodded  while  he  ran  through 
the  notes  with  finger  and  thumb.  "As  the  eldest 
brother,  James  Carthew  wants  Welland,  to  add 
it  to  the  entailed  estates.  He  has  always  wanted 
it:  but  these  eight  months,  since  that  infant  was 
born  to  him,  he  has  wanted  it  ten  times  more. 
To-night  he  bids  for  it:  and  for  decency's  sake 
he  bids  through  me  —  which  is  precisely  where 
he  comes  to  grief." 

"I  don't  understand." 

Leggat  went  on  silently  counting  the  notes. 
"Three  thousand,  five  hundred,"  he  answered; 
"the  deposit  money  and  a  trifle  over,  in  case  of 
accidents.  James  Carthew  is  a  rich  man.  I 
should  reckon  him  up  at  a  hundred  and  twenty 
thousand,  and  be  within  the  mark," 
[221] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

"But  why  should  he  employ  you  ?" 

"In  the  first  place,  I  suppose,  because  I've 
played  the  game  for  him  throughout,  and  played 
it  pretty  successfully." 

"Tou?" 

He  nodded.  "You  don't  suppose  Harry  was 
playing  against  me  all  this  while  ?  My  dear  lady, 
you  cannot  ruin  a  man  at  the  cards  without  some 
capital  of  your  own;  that  is,  supposing  you  play 
straight,  as  I  beg  to  observe  that  I  did.  No,  no: 
I  had  a  backer,  and  that  backer  was  your  amiable 
brother-in-law." 

"But  why?" 

"Simply  because  a  steady-going  man  like 
James,  however  much  he  inherits  by  entail,  re- 
sents the  choicest  portion  of  the  property  — 
which  does  not  happen  to  be  entailed  —  being 
willed  away  to  a  loose  dog  of  a  younger  brother. 
And  when  that  younger  brother  marries  and  has 
a  son,  whereas  he  has  married  a  childless  woman, 
he  resents  it  yet  more  bitterly.  He  cannot  digest 
the  grievance  that,  when  he  dies,  the  whole  must 
go  to  the  son  of  the  brother  who  sits  and  drinks 
the  wine  in  Naboth's  vineyard.  But,  as  it  hap- 
pens, his  childless  wife  dies,  and  presto!  he 
marries  again.  At  a  decent  interval  a  child  is 
born,  and  now  is  his  time  to  play  a  tit-for-tat." 
[  222] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

"He  always  hated  us,  I  know,"  she  murmured. 
"But  you " 

"But  I,"  he  answered  gaily,  "am  about  to 
spoil  that  pretty  game  —  and  for  your  sake. 
Yes,  and  although  you  don't  know  how,  and  will 
never  know  how,  I  am  going  to  risk  my  neck  for 
it."  He  tossed  the  bundle  of  notes  across  the 
table  towards  her.  She  put  out  a  hand  as  it  rolled 
off  the  table's  edge  and  dropped  at  her  feet. 
"Count  them:  because  I  have  to  use  them  to- 
night to  buy  Welland  back  for  you."  And  now 
there  was  a  real  thrill  in  his  voice.  "  Count  them," 
he  insisted:  "they  are  only  the  first-fruits,  and 
after  to-night  you  may  never  see  me  again:  they 
are  only  the  deposit  on  the  price,  and  after  the 
auction  I  shall  ride  away  —  not  back  to  Welland 
Vicarage.  But  I  have  a  word  to  leave,  or  to  send, 
for  Master  James  Carthew,  and  if  these  notes  do 
not  buy  Welland  back  for  you  I  am  mistaken. 
I  am  what  I  am,  and  from  what  we  are  such  poor 
devils  as  I  cannot  escape.  But  at  least  I  have 
loved  you,  and  in  the  end  you  shall  be  sure  of  it. 
Count  them!" 

He  wheeled  about  on  the  words  as  the  door  was 
flung  open.  On  the  threshold  stood  Squire 
Harry  Carthew. 

He  was  white  in  the  face  and  more  than  half- 
[223] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

drunk.  Under  one  arm  he  carried  a  leather- 
covered  case  and  a  pair  of  foils.  His  gaze  wan- 
dered from  his  wife  to  Leggat,  then  back  again  to 
his  wife. 

"I  want,"  said  he,  addressing  her  with  husky 
solemnity,  "  a  word  with  Mr.  Addison  in  private." 
She  bent  her  head  and  moved  from  the  room, 
and  he  bowed  as  he  passed,  but  somewhat  spoiled 
the  effect  by  shutting  the  door  upon  her  train. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  closing  the  door  a  second 
time  and  locking  it  upon  her  —  and  his  tone  grew 
suddenly  sharp,  though  he  remained  none  the 
less  drunk  —  "I  think,  Mr.  Addison,  we  need 
waste  no  time.  My  wife's  maid,  Susie,  has  told 
me  all  that  is  necessary.  You  will  choose  one  of 
those  pistols,  and  we  can  settle  the  matter  here 
and  now.  No!"  —  for  Leggat  had  begun  to  edge 
towards  the  packet  of  notes  lying  on  the  floor  - 
"you  are  not  to  stir,  please,  until  we  understand 
one  another."  He  laid  the  foils  on  the  table  and 
held  out  the  case.  Leggat  took  the  pistol  next 
to  his  hand. 

"You  are  drunk,  Carthew." 

"Am  I  ?    Well,  that  is  likely  enough,  and  as  a 

sportsman  you  won't  object  to  allow  for  it  in  our 

arrangements."     He    slipped    the    door-key    into 

his  breeches  pocket  and,  still  holding  the  pistol 

[224] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

in  his  right  hand,  leaned  forward  and  laid  his 
left  on  the  base  of  the  candlestick.  "You  start 
from  that  end  of  the  room,  and  I  from  this  by  the 
fireplace.  Are  you  ready?  Here,  take  one  of 
the  foils  too.  After  I  have  blown  the  candle  out 
you  will  remain  at  your  end  and  count  twenty,  in 
silence,  of  course.  I  will  do  the  same  at  my  end, 
and  then  we  begin." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  man!  This  is  no  duel;  it  is 
murder,  and  foolish  murder." 

Squire  Carthew  puffed  out  the  candle.  Then 
the  guard  of  the  foil  rattled  softly  upon  the 
mahogany  as  he  closed  his  hand  upon  it. 
"Count  twenty,  please." 

I  leave  the  reader  to  picture  my  situation. 
There,  in  the  silence  and  the  darkness  with  these 
two  —  one  of  them  drunk  —  prowling  to  kill.  In 
all  my  experience  I  can  recall  nothing  so  entirely 
discomfortable.  I  had  no  defence  but  the  folds 
of  a  window  curtain.  I  could  not  stir  without 
inviting  a  thrust  or  a  pistol  shot,  or  both.  And  I 
may  remark  here,  that  there  is  a  degree  of  terror 
which  resembles  physical  sickness.  Experto  cre- 
dite. 

I  heard  the  men  kick  off  their  shoes;  and  after 
that  for  many  seconds  —  though  I  strained  my 
ears,  you  may  be  sure  —  I  heard  nothing. 
[225] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

Then  a  hand  brushed  upon  the  woodwork  of 
the  recess  and  even  rested  for  a  moment  against 
the  curtain,  within  six  inches  of  my  nose.  It  was 
Leggat  I  could  be  sworn.  I  drew  back  as  his 
fingers  felt  the  stuff  of  the  curtain  and  passed  on 
groping;  I  even  heard  the  soft  crack  of  his  elbow- 
joint  as  he  gripped  the  foil  again,  which  for  the 
moment  he  must  have  tucked  under  his  arm-pit. 

And  with  that  it  flashed  on  me  what  he  was  after 
—  the  roll  of  notes  lying  on  the  floor,  between 
the  table  and  the  fireplace,  barely  a  foot  beyond 
the  table's  edge  and  perhaps  four  yards  from  my 
hiding  place.  I  knew  the  spot  exactly.  Squire 
Carthew  had  almost  touched  the  packet  with  his 
foot  as  he  stooped  to  blow  out  the  candle. 

I  dropped  on  hands  and  knees  behind  my  cur- 
tain, pushed  it  softly  aside  and  began  to  crawl. 
I  could  hear  nothing  now  but  my  own  heart  drum- 
ming. For  the  next  few  moments,  if  I  made  no 
sound,  it  was  unlikely  either  that  Leggat  would 
steal  back  upon  me  or  that  the  squire  could  reach 
me  without  encountering  Leggat.  My  hand 
touched  the  table-leg,  and  the  touch  of  it,  coming 
unexpectedly,  almost  made  me  cry  out.  A 
moment  later  I  felt  more  easy.  Once  beneath 
the  table  I  was  comparatively  safe.  But  I  must 
get  my  hand  on  these  notes,  and  after  pausing  a 
[226] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

second  I  steered  towards  the  fireplace,  poked  out 
my  head  and  shoulders  beyond  the  table,  and 
smoothed  my  palm  across  the  floor  until  my 
fingers  touched  the  packet  and  closed  upon  it. 

At  that  moment,  in  the  darkness,  to  the  left,  a 
foil  rattled  against  a  chair.  The  sound  was  a 
slight  one,  but  it  betrayed  Leggat's  whereabouts, 
and,  with  a  gasp  of  triumph,  Carthew  came  run- 
ning upon  him  from  the  right. 

I  ducked  my  head,  but  before  I  could  slip  back 
he  had  blundered  right  across  my  shoulders,  which 
reached,  perhaps,  to  his  knees.  He  went  over 
me  with  an  oath  and  a  crash,  and  as  he  struck  the 
floor  his  pistol  exploded. 

I  drew  back  with  the  smoke  of  it  in  my  mouth 
and  nostrils  —  and  listened.  Not  a  sound  came 
from  Leggat's  corner,  not  a  groan  from  the  body 
stretched  within  reach.  The  man  was  dead,  for 
certain;  and  we  others  had  no  time  to  lose. 

A  thud  in  the  corridor  outside  called  me  to  my 
senses.  "Robert  Leggat,"  I  cried,  "this  is  a 
black  night's  job  for  you!  Lay  down  that  pistol, 
find  your  shoes,  and  run!" 

At  this  distance  of  time  I  would  give  something 
to  know  how  it  took  him  —  this  voice  calling  his 
true  name  out  of  the  darkness  and  across  Carthew's 
body. 

[227] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

"My  God!  Who  is  that?"  he  asked,  and  I 
could  hear  his  teeth  chattering. 

Before  I  had  need  to  answer,  he  broke  from 
his  corner  and  flung  up  the  window,  but  recollected 
himself,  and  ran  for  his  shoes.  He  had  scarcely 
found  them  when  there  came  that  rush  upon  the 
stairs  for  which  I  had  been  listening,  and  a 
woman's  voice  screamed,  "The  Mistress!  They've 
murdered  the  mistress!" 

In  my  heart  I  blessed  Mrs.  Carthew  —  poor 
soul  —  for  having  swooned  so  conveniently  out- 
side the  door.  By  this  time  Leggat  was  clamber- 
ing across  the  window  sill.  What  sort  of  drop 
lay  below  it  ?  I  saw  the  black  mass  of  his  body 
framed  there  for  a  moment  against  a  sky  almost 
as  black,  and  watched  as  he  lowered  himself,  and 
disappeared.  I  listened  for  the  thud  of  a  fall; 
but  none  came,  and  running  to  see  what  had  be- 
fallen him,  I  caught  another  glimpse  of  him  as 
he  stole  past  a  lit  skylight  in  a  long  flat  roof 
scarcely  six  feet  below. 

Here  was  luck  beyond  my  hoping.  The  crowd 
in  the  passage  was  still  occupied  with  Mrs. 
Carthew,  but  at  length  someone  tried  the  handle 
of  the  door.  This  was  my  cue.  I  clambered 
out  after  Leggat  —  who  by  this  time  had  dis- 
appeared —  drew  down  the  window-sash  cau- 

[228] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

tiously  and  wriggled  across  the  leads  of  the  roof, 
pausing  only  at  the  skylight  to  peer  down  into  an 
empty  room,  where  a  score  of  wooden-seated 
chairs  stood  in  disarray  by  a  long  table  —  the 
deserted  auction-room,  doubtless.  At  the  far  end 
of  this  roof  a  chimney-stack  rose  gaunt  against 
the  night;  and  flattening  myself  against  the  side 
of  it,  I  waited  for  the  dull  crash  which  told  that 
the  crowd  had  broken  in  the  door. 

I  had  made  better  speed,  you  understand,  but 
for  the  risk  of  overtaking  Leggat  and  being 
recognised.  As  it  was,  I  had  set  the  worst  of  all 
terrors  barking  at  his  heels,  and  by  and  by  —  it 
may  have  been  after  three  minutes'  wait  —  I 
chuckled  at  the  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  in  the 
stable-yard  below  me.  It  was  too  dark  for  me  to 
catch  sight  of  the  rider  as  he  mounted;  but  he 
made  for  the  lower  gate  of  the  yard  and,  once 
past  it,  broke  into  a  gallop.  As  its  echoes  died 
away,  I  began  my  search  for  the  ladder  by  which 
Leggat  had  descended;  found  it,  as  I  had  ex- 
pected, in  the  form  of  a  stout  water-pipe;  and 
having  reached  the  ground  without  mishap, 
brushed  and  smoothed  my  clothes  and  sauntered 
up  the  stable-yard  to  the  hotel  archway. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  there,  I  was  almost 
bowled  over  by  the  Boots,  who  came  flying  down 
[229] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

three  stairs  at  a  stride.  "The  Doctor!"  he 
shouted:  "the  Doctor!"  He  tore  past  me  and 
out  into  the  street. 

I  entered  the  coffee-room  and  rang  the  bell. 

I  suppose  that  I  rang  it  at  intervals  for  some- 
thing like  half-an-hour  before  the  waitress  found 
me  yawning  before  the  exhausted  fire. 

"Sale  over  yet?"  I  asked  pleasantly. 

"Sale  over?  Sale  ov  —  ?"  She  set  down  the 
lamp  and  gasped.  "Do  you  tell  me  that  you've 
slept  through  it  all  ? " 

"All  what,  my  dear?" 

Out  it  all  came  in  a  flood.  "The  Squire's  shot 
himself!  In  the  Blue  Room  over  your  very  head 
—  locked  the  door  and  shot  himself  clean  through 
the  brains!  Poor  gentleman,  he  felt  his  position, 
though  he  did  drink  so  fierce.  And  now  he's 
gone,  and  Mrs.  Carthew  no  sooner  out  of  one 
swoon  than  into  another." 

"Bless  my  soul!"  cried  I.  "Now  you  speak 
of  it,  I  did  hear  something  like  a  pistol  shot;  but 
that  must  have  been  half-an-hour  ago." 

"It's  a  wonder,"  she  said  tragically,  "his  blood 
didn't  drip  on  you  through  the  ceiling." 

It  was  useless  (she  agreed  with  me)  to  expect 
Mr.  Addison  to  attend  to  my  business  that  night. 
Indeed,  though  he  was  doubtless  somewhere  in 

[23°] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

the  crowd,  she  could  not  recall  having  seen  him. 
It  would  also  be  useless,  and  worse,  to  seek  an 
interview  with  Susie,  who  was  attending  to  her 
poor  mistress. 

"Very  well,"  I  said.  "Then  since  I  can  see 
neither  the  parson  nor  the  girl,  I  must  make  shift 
with  the  lawyer.  No,  my  dear,  you  need  not  stare 
at  me  like  that,  I  don't  put  my  money  on  my  back, 
like  some  of  your  gentry;  but  while  I  keep  enough 
in  my  pocket  there's  no  law  in  England  against 
my  employing  as  good  an  attorney  as  poor  Mr. 
Carthew  —  or,  if  I  choose,  the  very  same  man." 

"What?     Mr.  Retallack?" 

I  nodded.  "That's  it  —  Mr.  Retallack.  I 
take  it  he  came  to  attend  the  auction,  and  is  up- 
stairs at  this  moment." 

"Why,  yes;  it  was  he  that  gave  orders  to  break 
in  the  door  and  found  the  body.  He  began  put- 
ting questions  to  Mrs.  Carthew,  but  the  poor  soul 
wasn't  fit  to  answer.  And  then  he  and  Mr.  James 
tackled  Susie,  who  swore  she  knew  nothing  of  the 
business  until  she  heard  the  shot  —  as  we  all  did 
-  and,  running  out,  found  her  mistress  stretched 
in  the  passage:  and  now  she's  attending  to  her  in 
the  bedroom  with  the  doctor.  So  the  lawyer's 
at  a  standstill." 

"Mr.  James  Carthew?     Is  he  here  too?" 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

"Yes:  he's  living  at  his  town  house  this  week, 
but  he  came  here  to-night  —  for  the  sale,  I  sup- 
pose. He's  upstairs  now,  and  his  wife  along  with 
him;  she  heard  the  news  cried  up  the  street  and 
came  running  down  all  agog  with  her  bonnet  on 
top  of  her  nightcap.  But  I  mustn't  stay  talking." 

"No,  indeed  you  must  not,"  said  I.  "Here, 
tell  me  where  you  keep  your  tinder-box.  .  .  . 
Now,  while  I  light  the  candles,  do  you  run  up- 
stairs and  tell  Mr.  Retallack  privately  that  a  per- 
son wishes  to  speak  with  him  in  the  coffee-room  on 
an  important  matter  and  one  connected  with  to- 
night's business." 

The  girl,  hungry  to  be  back  at  the  scene  of 
horror,  lost  no  time.  I  had  scarcely  time  to  light 
the  four  candles  on  the  chimney-piece  when  the 
baize  door  opened  and  I  found  myself  bowing  to  a 
white-haired  little  gentleman  with  a  kindly, 
flustered  face.  He  was  plainly  suffering  from 
nervous  excitement  in  a  high  degree,  and  in  the 
act  of  bowing  attempted  to  rearrange  his  shirt- 
frill  with  an  undecided  hand. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Retallack." 

"You  sent  for  me "  he  began,  and  broke 

off,  obviously  dismayed  by  my  rough  clothes  and 
not  altogether  liking  the  look  of  his  customer. 

I  offered  him  a  chair;  he  looked  at  it  doubtfully, 
[232] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

but  shook  his  head.  "  My  business  is  of  moment," 
said  I,  "  and  of  some  urgency.  That  must  excuse 
me  for  summoning  you  just  now,  since  as  a  matter 
of  fact  it  has  less  to  do  with  the  unhappy  pair  up- 
stairs than  with  what  I  take  to  be  the  cause  of  it. 
I  mean  the  sale  of  the  Welland  estate." 

He  spread  out  his  hands.  "At  such  a  time!" 
he  protested. 

"I  am  glad  to  find,  sir,  that  you  feel  so  deeply, 
since  it  proves  you  to  be  a  real  friend  of  the 
family.  But  as  a  lawyer  you  will  not  let  emotion 
obscure  your  good  sense,  or  miss  a  chance  of 
saving  Welland  for  the  poor  lady  and  orphan 
child  upstairs  merely  because  it  happens  to  present 
itself  at  an  untoward  moment." 

He  eyed  me,  fumbling  with  the  seals  at  his  fob. 
His  mind  was  by  no  means  clear,  but  professional 
instinct  seemed  to  warn  him  that  my  words  were 
important. 

"I  do  not  know  you,  sir,"  he  quavered;  "but  if 
you  are  here  with  any  plan  of  saving  Welland,  I 
must  tell  you  sadly  that  you  waste  time.  I  have 
thought  of  a  hundred  plans,  sir,  but  have  found 
none  workable.  It  has  destroyed  my  rest  for 
months  —  for,  with  all  his  failings,  I  was  sincerely 
attached  to  young  Mr.  Carthew,  and  no  less 
sincerely  to  his  unhappy  lady.  I  warned  him  a 
[233] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

hundred  times:  but  the  debts  exist,  the  mortga- 
gees foreclose,  and  Welland  must  go." 

"Who  are  the  mortgagees  ?" 

"A  joint-stock  company  in  London,  sir,  which 
lives  upon  this  form  of  usury.  Men  with  bowels 
of  brass.  It  was  against  my  strongest  warning 
that  Mr.  Harry  went  to  them." 

"The  amount?" 

"Thirty-four  thousand  pounds." 

"Will  the  estate  sell  for  that  figure?" 

"Scarcely,  at  a  forced  sale;  unless  some  pur- 
chaser took  a  special  fancy  to  it  or  had  some 
special  reason  for  acquiring  it." 

"Suppose,  now,  that  I  offer  thirty-four  thou- 
sand to  buy  the  estate  by  private  contract.  Would 
such  an  offer  be  accepted?" 

"Indubitably.  The  mortgagees  could  offer  no 
objection,  even  if  they  wished;  for  they  would  be 
paid;  but,  in  fact,  they  scarcely  hope  for  so  much. 
You  will  excuse  me,  however " 

"  In  a  moment,  Mr.  Retallack.  Still,  supposing 
that  I  offer  thirty-four  thousand,  a  deposit  on  the 
purchase  money  would  be  required.  Can  you 
name  the  sum  ?" 

"Unless  the  purchaser  were  well  known  in  this 
neighbourhood  ten  per  cent,  would  be  asked,  or 
three  thousand  four  hundred." 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

"  Leaving  me  a  hundred,"  I  said  musingly. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ? " 

"Nothing:  a  bad  habit  I  have  of  talking  to 
myself.  Will  you  pardon  a  question  of  some 
abruptness  ?  You  are  acquainted,  no  doubt, 
with  the  present  Mrs.  James  Carthew?" 

"Slightly."  He  looked  at  me  in  some  puzzle- 
ment. "She  was  Mr.  James's  housekeeper." 

"So  I  have  heard.  Is  she  a  woman  of  strong 
mind?  with  an  influence  upon  her  husband?" 

Mr.  Retallack  positively  smiled. 

"  You  may  be  sure  he  would  never  have  married 
her  without  it.  Oh,  there's  no  doubt  about  the 
strength  of  her  mind!" 

"  Middle-aged,  I  believe  ?  With  one  child,  and 
not  likely  to  have  another  ? " 

"It  astonished  us  all  when  this  one  was  born. 
Indeed,  people  do  say  —  but  I  mustn't  repeat 
tattle." 

"No,  indeed.  But  a  man  like  James  Carthew, 

with  a  large  entail  at  stake,  might  be  forgiven " 

I  did  not  finish  my  sentence,  but  stepped  to  the 
bell  and  rang  it. 

"Excuse  me,  sir,"  said  Mr.   Retallack;  "you 

began  by  promising  —  at  least  by  holding  out 

some  hope  —  that  Welland  might  be  preserved 

for  Mrs.  Harry  Carthew  and  her  son.     But  so  far 

[235] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

you  have  told  me  nothing  except  that  you  wish 
to  purchase  it  yourself." 

"I  think,  rather,  that  you  must  have  jumped 
to  that  conclusion.  My  dear  sir,  do  I  look  like  a 
man  able  to  purchase  Welland  ?  No,  no;  I  am 
merely  the  agent  of  a  friend  who  is  unhappily 
prevented  from  treating  in  person.  My  dear" 
I  turned  to  the  waitress  who  entered  at  this 
moment  —  "would  you  mind  running  upstairs 
and  telling  Mr.  and  Mrs.  James  Carthew  that  Mr. 
Addison  has  ridden  home,  leaving  a  packet  of 
notes  behind  him;  and  that  the  person  in  posses- 
sion of  that  packet  wishes  to  see  them  both  - 
be  particular  to  say  '  both '  —  in  private." 

"Sir,  sir!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Retallack,  as  the 
maid  shut  the  door.  I  turned  to  find  him  eyeing 
me  between  suspicion  and  alarm.  "Either  you 
have  not  been  frank  with  me,  or  you  must  be 
ignorant  that  James  Carthew  has  been  no  brotherly 
brother  of  poor  Harry.  He  is  the  last  man  be- 
fore whom  I  should  care  to  discuss  the  purchase 
of  Welland.  I  have,  indeed,  more  than  once 
suspected  him  of  being  in  collusion  with  the  Mr. 
Addison  you  mention,  and,  in  part,  responsible 
for  the  disaster  into  which,  as  I  maintain,  that 
reverend  gentleman  has  hurried  my  poor  friend. 
If  there  be  any  question  of  James  Carthew's  pur- 

[236] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

chasing  Welland  (and  I  will  confess  the  fear  of 
this  has  been  troubling  me)  I  must  decline  to 
listen  to  it  until  fate  compels  me.  To-night, 
with  Harry  Carthew  lying  dead  in  the  room  above, 
I  will  not  hear  it  so  much  as  suggested." 

"Then,  my  excellent  Mr.  Retallack,  do  not 
start  suggesting  it.  Ah,  here  they  are!"  said  I, 
pleasantly,  as  the  door  opened,  and,  as  I  expected, 
my  bald-headed  man  appeared  on  the  threshold, 
and  was  followed  by  a  grim-looking  female  in  a 
fearsome  head-dress  compounded  of  bonnet  and 
nightcap.  "Sir,"  I  began,  addressing  James 
Carthew  with  much  affability,  "it  is  through  our 
common  friend,  Mr.  Addison,  that  I  venture  to 
commend  myself  to  you  and  to  your  good  lady." 

"And  who  may  you  be  ?"  Mrs.  James  demanded, 
with  sufficient  bluntness. 

"You  may  put  me  down  as  Captain  Richard 
Steele,  madam,  of  the  Spectator,  not  the  Tatler; 
and  I  have  sent  for  you  in  a  hurry,  for  which  I 
must  apologise,  because  our  friend,  Mr.  Addison, 
has  ridden  from  Tregarrick  to-night  on  urgent 
private  business,  and  I  am  here  to  carry  out  cer- 
tain intentions  of  his  with  regard  to  a  bundle  of 
notes  which  he  left  in  my  keeping." 

"  I  don't  know  you,  sir;  and  I  don't  know  your 
game,"  struck  in  James  Carthew  roughly;  "but 
[237] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

if  the  notes  are  mine,  as  I  suspect,  I  beg  to  state 
that  I  never  intended ' 

"Quite  so,"  I  took  him  up  amiably.  "You  do 
good  by  stealth  and  blush  to  find  it  known.  But, 
in  view  of  the  sad  event  upstairs,  there  can  be  no 
harm  in  my  stating  before  so  discreet  a  lawyer  as 
Mr.  Retallack  what  I  had  from  Mr.Addison's  own 
lips  —  that  these  notes  were  intended  by  you  for 
the  deposit-money  on  the  purchase  of  Welland." 

"  Addison  had  no  right  - 

"Of  course,  if  I  misread  his  directions,  you  can 
refer  to  him  to  correct  me  —  when  he  returns. 
As  it  is,  I  heard  it  from  him  most  plainly  that  — 
thanks  to  you  —  Welland  was  to  be  rescued  and 
preserved  for  Mr.  Harry  Carthew's  child.  Mr. 
Retallack  tells  me  that  thirty-four  thousand 
pounds  is  the  sum  needed,  and  that,  of  this,  ten 
per  cent.,  or  three  thousand  four  hundred,  will  be 
accepted  as  deposit  money.  It  happens  that  I 
have  but  a  short  time  to  spend  in  Tregarrick, 
and  therefore  I  have  ventured  to  summon  you 
and  madam  to  bear  witness  that  I  hand  this  sum 
over  to  the  person  competent  to  receive  it."  And 
with  this  I  took  the  notes  from  my  breast-pocket 
and  began  to  count  them  out  carefully  upon  the 
table. 

"This    fellow    is    drunk,"    said     Mr.    James 

[438] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

Carthew,  addressing  the  lawyer.  "The  notes  are 
mine,  as  I  can  prove.  They  were  entrusted  by 
me  to  Mr.  Addison  - 

"Who,  it  appears,  has  surrendered  them,"  said 
Mr.  Retallack  drily.  "Did  Mr.  Addison  give 
you  a  receipt  ?" 

"They  are  mine,  and  were  entrusted  to  him 
for  a  private  purpose.  This  fellow  can  have 
come  by  them  in  no  honest  way.  Impound  them 
if  you  will;  I  can  wait  for  Addison's  testimony. 
But  as  for  intending  to  make  a  present  of  Welland 
to  that  brat  of  Harry's  - 

"Not  directly  to  him,"  I  interrupted,  having 
done  with  my  counting,  and  folding  away  two 
notes  for  fifty  pounds  apiece  in  my  pocket.  "On 
second  thoughts,  Mr.  Retallack  shall  make  out 
the  conveyance  to  me,  and  I  will  assign  a  lease 
retaining  the  present  tenant  in  possession  at  a 
nominal  rent  of,  let  me  say,  five  shillings  a  year. 
I  am  sorry  to  give  him  so  much  trouble  at  this 
late  hour,  but  it  is  important  that  I  leave  Tre- 
garrick  without  avoidable  delay." 

"I  can  well  believe  that,"  James  Carthew  be- 
gan. But  the  lawyer  who,  without  a  notion  of 
my  drift,  was  now  playing  up  to  me  very  prettily, 
interrupted  him  again. 

"This  is  very  well,  sir,"  said  he,  addressing  me; 

[239] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

"very  well,  indeed.  But  if,  as  you  say,  you  are 
leaving  Tregarrick,  at  what  date  may  we  expect 
the  purchase  to  be  completed  ? " 

"Why,  that  I  must  leave  to  you  and  Mr.  James 
Carthew." 

"To  me,  sir?"  thundered  Mr.  James,  every 
vein  on  his  bald  head  swelling.  "To  me!  Are 
you  mad,  as  well  as  drunk  ?  When  I  tell  you, 
Mr.  Retallack  - 

I  glanced  up  with  a  smile  and  caught  his  wife's 
eye.  And  to  my  dying  day  I  shall  respect  that 
woman.  From  first  to  last  she  had  listened  with- 
out the  wink  of  an  eyelash;  but  now  she  spoke  up 
firmly. 

"If  I  were  you,  James,  I  wouldn't  be  a  fool. 
The  best  use  you  can  make  of  your  breath  is  to 
ask  Mr.  Retallack  to  leave  the  room." 

The  lawyer,  at  a  nod  from  me,  withdrew. 

"Now,"  said  she,  as  the  door  closed,  "speak  up 
and  tell  me  what's  the  matter." 

"The  matter,  madam,"  I  answered,  "is  Addi- 
son.  He's  an  escaped  convict,  and  no  more  a 
clergyman  than  —  excuse  me  —  you  are." 

I  declare  that,  still,  not  an  eyelash  of  her 
quivered :  but  her  ass  of  a  husband  broke  in  - 

"I  don't  believe  it!     I  won't  believe  it!     Tell  us 
how  you  came  by  the  notes." 
[240] 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

"James,  I  beg  you  not  to  be  a  fool.  Has  he 
cut  and  run?"  she  asked. 

"He  has." 

"You  can  find  him?" 

"No,"  said  I,  "and  I  don't  want  to.  But  I  can 
get  a  message  conveyed  that  will  probably  reach 
and  warn  him  —  if  he  has  not  thought  of  it  already 
—  to  send  a  letter  to  the  Bishop  formally  resign- 
ing his  living." 

Then  Mrs.  James  Carthew  made  a  totally  unex- 
pected and,  as  I  still  hold,  a  really  humorous  remark. 

"Drat  the  fellow!"  she  said.  "And  he  preached 
an  Assize  Sermon  too!" 

But  once  again  her  ass  of  a  mate  broke  in. 

"What,  in  the  devil's  name,  are  you  parleying 
about,  Maria  ?  Addison  or  no  Addison,  you  don't 
suppose  I'm  to  be  blackmailed  into  buying 
Welland  for  that  young  whelp!" 

"  Just  as  you  please,"  said  I.  "  If  you  prefer  the 
money  being  raised  for  him  on  the  entail,  so  be  it." 

"On  the  entail?"  He  opened  and  shut  his 
mouth  like  a  fish. 

"Yes,  sir;  on  the  entail  —  his  parents  not  hav- 
ing employed  Mr.  Addison  to  marry  them." 

But  at  this  point  Mrs.  James,  without  deigning 
me  another  look,  tucked  the  poor  fool  under  her 
arm  and  carried  him  off. 


THE  MAN  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

I  left  Tregarrick  two  days  later  with  a  hundred 
pounds  in  my  pocket:  for  the  odd  notes  seemed 
to  me  a  fair  commission  on  a  very  satisfactory 
job.  Now,  as  I  look  back  on  my  adventure,  I 
detect  several  curious  points  in  it.  The  first  is, 
that  I  have  never  set  eyes  on  Susie  Martin:  the 
second,  that  I  never  had  another  interview  with 
Mr.  or  Mrs.  James  Carthew:  the  third,  that 
neither  then  nor  since  have  I  ever  had  a  word  of 
thanks  from  the  lady  and  child  to  whom  I  rendered 
this  signal  service.  The  one,  so  far  as  I  know, 
never  saw  me:  the  other  saw  me  only  for  that  in- 
stant when  he  dropped  me  a  penny  for  a  trick. 
To  both,  I  am  known  only  as  Captain  Richard 
Steele,  and  whoever  inhabits  Welland  pays  five 
shillings  out  of  one  pocket  into  another  for  his 
tenancy,  and  will  continue  to  do  so.  But,  per- 
haps, what  the  reader  will  most  wonder  at,  is  that 
I  —  Gabriel  Foot  —  having  my  hand  on  three 
thousand  five  hundred  pounds,  and  a  clear  run 
for  it,  should  have  yielded  up  all  but  a  hundred 
for  a  widow  and  orphan,  who  never  heard  of  my 
existing.  Well,  perhaps,  the  secret  is  that  Leggat 
intended  to  yield  it,  and  I  pride  myself  on  being 
a  better  man  than  Leggat.  In  short,  I  have, 
within  limits,  a  conscience. 

[242] 


RAIN  OF   DOLLARS 


AT  nine  o'clock  or  thereabouts  in  the  morning 
of  January  5,  1809,  five  regiments  of  British 
infantry  and  a  troop  of  horse  artillery  with  six 
guns  were  winding  their  way  down  the  eastern 
slope  of  a  ravine  beyond  Nogales,  in  the  fastnesses 
of  Galicia.  They  formed  the  reserve  of  Sir  John 
Moore's  army,  retreating  upon  Corunna;  and  as 
they  slid  or  skidded  down  the  frozen  road  in  the 
teeth  of  a  snowstorm,  the  men  of  the  28th  and 
95th  Rifles,  who  made  up  the  rearguard  —  for 
the  cavalry  had  been  sent  forward  as  being  useless 
for  protection  in  this  difficult  country  —  were 
forced  to  turn  from  time  to  time  and  silence  the 
fire  of  the  French,  close  upon  their  heels  and 
galling  them. 

A  dirty  brown  trail,  trodden  and  churned  by 

the  main  army  and  again  frozen  hard,  gave  them 

the  course  of  the  road  as  it  zig-zagged  into  the 

ravine;  but,  even  had  the  snow  obliterated  the 

[243] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

track,  the  regiments  could  have  found  their  way 
by  the  dead  bodies  strewing  it  —  bodies  of  men, 
of  horses,  even  of  women  and  children  —  some 
heaped  by  the  wind's  eddies  with  thick  coverlets 
of  white,  so  that  their  forms  could  only  be  guessed; 
others  half  sunk,  with  a  glazing  of  thin  ice  over 
upturned  faces  and  wide-open  eyes;  others  again 
flung  in  stiff  contortions  across  the  very  road  — 
here  a  man  with  his  fists  clenched  to  his  ribs,  there 
a  horse  on  its  back  with  all  four  legs  in  air,  crooked, 
and  rigid  as  poles.  The  most  of  these  horses 
had  belonged  to  the  dragoons,  who,  after  leading 
them  to  the  last,  had  been  forced  to  slaughter 
them:  for  the  poor  brutes  cast  their  shoes  on  the 
rough  track,  and  the  forage-carts  with  the  cavalry 
contained  neither  spare  shoes  nor  nails.  The 
women  and  children,  with  sick  stragglers  and 
plunderers,  had  made  up  that  horrible,  shameful 
tail-pipe  which  every  retreating  army  drags  in 
its  wake  —  a  crowd  to  which  the  reserve  had  for 
weeks  acted  as  whippers-in,  herding  them  through 
Bembibre,  Calcabellos,  Villa  Franca,  Nogales; 
driving  them  out  of  wine-shops;  shaking,  pricking, 
clubbing  them  from  drunken  stupor  into  panic; 
pushing  them  forward  through  the  snow  until 
they  collapsed  in  it  to  stagger  up  no  more.  Strewn 
between  the  corpses  along  the  wayside  lay  broken 
[244] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

carts  and  cartwheels,  bundles,  knapsacks,  mus- 
kets, shakos,  split  boots,  kettles,  empty  wine- 
flasks  —  whatever  the  weaker  had  dropped  and 
the  stronger  had  found  not  worth  the  gleaning. 

The  regiments  lurched  by  sullenly,  savagely. 
They  were  red-eyed  with  want  of  sleep  and  weary 
from  an  overnight  march  of  thirty-five  miles; 
and  they  had  feasted  their  fill  of  these  sights.  On 
this  side  of  Herrerias,  for  example,  they  had 
passed  a  group  of  three  men,  a  woman,  and  a 
child,  lying  dead  in  a  circle  around  a  broken 
cask  and  a  frozen  pool  of  rum.  And  at  Nogales 
they  had  drained  a  wine-vat,  to  discover  its 
drowned  owner  at  the  bottom.  They  themselves 
were  sick  and  shaking  with  abstinence  after 
drunkenness;  heavy  with  shame,  too.  For  though 
incomparably  better  behaved  than  the  main  body, 
the  reserve  had  disgraced  themselves  once  or 
twice,  and  incurred  a  stern  lesson  from  Paget, 
their  General.  On  a  low  hill  before  Calcabellos 
he  had  halted  them,  formed  them  in  a  hollow 
square  with  faces  inwards,  set  up  his  triangles, 
and  flogged  the  drunkards  collected  during  the 
night  by  the  patrols.  Then,  turning  to  two  cul- 
prits taken  in  the  act  of  robbing  a  peaceful  Span- 
iard, he  had  them  brought  forward  with  ropes 
around  their  necks  and  hoisted,  under  a  tree, 

[245] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

upon  the  shoulders  of  the  provost-marshal's  men. 
While  the  ropes  were  being  knotted  to  the  branches 
overhead,  an  officer  rode  up  at  a  gallop  to  report 
that  the  French  were  driving  in  our  picquets  on 
the  other  side  of  the  hill.  "I  am  sorry  for  it, 
Sir,"  answered  Paget;  "but  though  that  angle  of 
the  square  should  be  attacked,  I  shall  hang  these 
villains  in  this  one."  After  a  minute's  silence  he 
asked  his  men,  "If  I  spare  these  two,  will  you 
promise  me  to  reform?"  There  was  no  answer. 
"  If  I  spare  these  men,  shall  I  have  your  word  of 
honour  as  soldiers  that  you  will  reform?"  Still 
the  men  kept  silence,  until  a  few  officers  whispered 
them  to  say  "Yes,"  and  at  once  a  shout  of  "Yes!" 
broke  from  every  corner  of  the  square.  This 
had  been  their  lesson,  and  from  Calcabellos  on- 
ward the  division  had  striven  to  keep  its  word. 
But  a  sullen  flame  burned  in  their  sick  bodies; 
and  when  they  fought  they  fought  viciously,  as 
men  with  a  score  to  wipe  off  and  a  memory  to 
drown. 

A  few  hours  ago  they  had  resembled  scarecrows 
rather  than  British  soldiers;  now,  having  ran- 
sacked at  Nogales  a  train  of  carts  full  of  Spanish 
boots  and  clothing  —  which  had  been  sent  thither 
by  mistake  and  lay  abandoned,  without  mules, 
muleteers,  or  guards  —  they  showed  a  medley  of 

[246] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

costumes.  Some  wore  grey  breeches,  others  blue; 
some  black  boots,  others  white,  others  again 
black  and  white  together;  while  not  a  few  carried 
several  pairs  slung  round  their  necks.  Some  had 
wrapped  themselves  in  ponchos,  others  had  re- 
placed the  regulation  greatcoat  with  a  simple 
blanket.  But,  wild  crew  as  they  seemed,  they 
swung  down  the  road  in  good  order,  kept  steady 
by  discipline  and  the  fighting  spirit  and  a  present 
sense  of  the  enemy  close  at  hand. 

Ahead  of  them,  on  the  far  side  of  the  ravine, 
loomed  a  mountain  white  from  base  to  summit 
save  where  a  scarp  of  sheer  cliff  had  allowed  but  a 
powder  of  snow  to  cling  or,  settling  in  the  fissures, 
to  cross-hatch  the  wrinkles  of  its  forbidding  face. 
A  stream,  hidden  far  out  of  sight  by  the  near  wall 
of  the  ravine,  chattered  aloud  as  it  swept  around 
the  mountain's  base  on  a  sharp  curve,  rattling  the 
boulders  in  its  bed.  During  the  first  part  of  the 
descent  mists  and  snow-wreaths  concealed  even 
the  lip  of  the  chasm  through  which  this  noisy 
water  poured;  but  as  the  leading  regiment  neared 
it,  the  snowstorm  lifted,  the  clouds  parted,  and  a 
shaft  of  wintry  sunshine  pierced  the  valley,  re- 
vealing a  bridge  of  many  arches.  For  the  moment 
it  seemed  a  fairy  bridge  spanning  gulfs  of  nothing- 
ness; next  —  for  it  stood  aslant  to  the  road  —  its 
[247] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

narrow  archways  appeared  as  so  many  portals, 
tall  and  cavernous,  admitting  to  the  bowels  of  the 
mountain.  But  beyond  it  the  road  resumed  its 
zig-zags,  plainly  traceable  on  the  snow.  The 
soldiers,  as  they  neared  the  bridge,  grunted  their 
disapproval  of  these  zig-zags  beyond  it.  A  few 
lifted  their  muskets  and  took  imaginary  aim,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "That's  how  the  French  from 
here  will  pick  us  off  as  we  mount  yonder." 

The  General  had  been  the  first  to  perceive  this, 
and  ran  his  forces  briskly  across  the  bridge  - 
his  guns  first,  then  his  infantry  at  the  double. 
He  found  a  party  of  engineers  at  work  on  the 
farther  arches,  preparing  to  destroy  them  as  soon 
as  the  British  were  over;  but  ordered  them  to 
desist  and  make  their  way  out  of  danger  with  all 
speed.  For  the  stream  —  as  a  glance  told  him  — 
was  fordable  both  above  and  below  the  bridge, 
and  they  were  wasting  their  labour.  Moreover, 
arches  of  so  narrow  a  span  could  be  easily  re- 
paired. 

Engineers,  therefore,  and  artillery  and  infantry 
together  pressed  briskly  up  the  exposed  gradients, 
and  were  halted  just  beyond  musket-shot  from 
the  bank  opposite,  having  suffered  little  on  the 
way  from  the  few  French  voltigeurs  who  had 
arrived  in  time  to  fire  with  effect.  Though 
[248] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

beyond  their  range,  the  British  position  admirably 
commanded  the  bridge  and  the  bridge-head;  and 
Paget,  warming  to  his  work  and  willing  to  give 
tit-for-tat  after  hours  of  harassment,  devised  an 
ropen  insult  for  his  pursuers. 

He  ordered  the  guns  to  be  unlimbered  and  their 
horses  to  be  led  out  of  sight.  Then,  regiment  by 
regiment,  he  sent  his  division  onward  —  2Oth, 
52nd,  gist,  and  Rifles  —  pausing  only  at  his 
trusted  28th,  whom  he  proceeded  to  post  with 
careful  inconspicuousness;  the  light  company  be- 
hind a  low  fence  in  flank  of  the  guns  and  com- 
manding the  bridge,  the  grenadiers  about  a 
hundred  yards  behind  them,  and  the  battalion 
companies  yet  a  little  further  to  the  rear.  While 
the  28th  thus  disposed  themselves,  the  rest  of  the 
division  moved  off,  leaving  the  guns  to  all  appear- 
ance abandoned.  The  General  spread  his  great- 
coat, and  seating  himself  on  the  slope  behind 
the  light  company,  cheerfully  helped  himself  to 
snuff  from  the  pocket  of  his  buff-leather  waist- 
coat. Meanwhile  the  sky  had  been  clearing 
steadily,  and  the  sunshine,  at  first  so  feeble,  fell 
on  the  slope  with  almost  summer  warmth.  The 
28th,  under  the  lee  of  the  mountain-cliff's,  looked 
up  and  saw  white  clouds  chasing  each  other 
across  deep  gulfs  of  blue,  looked  down  and  saw 
[249] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

the  noon  rays  glinting  on  their  enemy's  accoutre- 
ments beyond  the  bridge-head.  The  French 
were  gathering  fast,  but  could  not  yet  make  up 
their  minds  to  assault. 

"Our  friends,"  said  the  General,  pouring  him- 
self a  drink  from  his  pocket-flask,  "don't  seem 
in  a  hurry  to  add  to  their  artillery." 

The  men  of  the  light  company,  standing  near 
him,  laughed  as  they  munched  their  rations. 
For  three  days  they  had  plodded  through  snow 
and  sleet  with  hot  hearts,  nursing  their  Com- 
mander-in-Chief's  reproof  at  Calcabellos:  "You, 
28th,  are  not  the  men  you  used  to  be.  You  are 
no  longer  the  regiment  who  to  a  man  fought 
by  my  side  in  Egypt!"  So  Moore  had  spoken, 
and  ridden  off  contemptuously,  leaving  the  words 
to  sting.  They  not  only  stung,  but  rankled;  for 
to  the  war-cry  of  "Remember  Egypt!"  the  28th 
always  went  into  action:  and  they  had  been  re- 
buked in  the  presence  of  Paget,  now  their  General 
of  Division,  but  once  their  Colonel,  and  the  very 
man  under  whom  they  had  won  their  proudest  title, 
"the  Backplates."  It  was  Paget  who,  when  once 
in  Egypt  the  regiment  had  to  meet  two  simultane- 
ous attacks,  in  front  and  rear,  had  faced  his  rear 
rank  about  and  gloriously  repulsed  both  charges. 

At  the  moment  of  Moore's  reproof  Paget  had 
[250] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

said  nothing,  and  he  made  no  allusion  to  it  now. 
But  the  28th  understood.  They  knew  why  he 
had  posted  them  alone  here,  and  why  he  re- 
mained to  watch.  He  was  giving  them  a  splendid 
chance,  if  a  forlorn  one.  In  the  recovered  sun- 
shine their  hearts  warmed  to  him. 

Unhappily,  the  French  did  not  seem  disposed 
to  walk  into  the  trap.  Their  fire  slackened  - 
from  the  first  it  had  not  been  serious  —  and  they 
loitered  by  the  bridge-end  awaiting  reinforce- 
ments. Yet  from  time  to  time  they  pushed 
small  parties  across  the  fords  above  and  below 
the  bridge;  and  at  length  Paget  sent  a  young 
subaltern  up  to  the  crest  of  the  ridge  on  his 
flank,  to  see  how  many  had  collected  thus  on  the 
near  side  of  the  stream.  The  subaltern  reported 
—  "Two  or  three  hundred." 

By  this  time  the  28th  had  been  posted  for  an 
hour  or  more;  time  enough  to  give  the  main 
body  of  the  reserve  a  start  of  four  miles.  General 
Paget  consulted  his  watch,  returned  it  to  his  fob, 
and  ordered  the  guns  to  be  horsed  again.  As  the 
artillerymen  led  their  horses  forward,  he  turned 
to  the  infantry,  eyed  their  chapfallen  faces,  and 
composedly  took  snuflF. 

"Twenty-eighth,  if  you  don't  get  fighting 
enough  it's  not  my  fault." 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

This  was  all  he  said,  but  it  went  to  the  men's 
hearts.  "You'll  give  us  another  chance,  Sir?" 
answered  one  or  two.  He  had  given  them  back 
already  some  of  their  old  self-esteem,  and  if  they 
were  disappointed  of  a  scrimmage,  so  was  he. 

But  it  would  never  do,  since  the  French  shirked 
a  direct  attack,  to  linger  and  be  turned  in  flank 
by  the  numbers  crossing  the  fords.  So,  having 
horsed  his  guns  and  sent  them  forward  to  over- 
take the  reserve,  Paget  ordered  the  28th  to  quit 
their  position  and  resume  the  march. 

No  sooner  were  they  in  motion  than  the  enemy's 
leading  column  began  to  pour  across  the  bridge; 
its  light  companies,  falling  in  with  the  scattered 
troops  from  the  fords,  pressed  down  upon  the 
British  rear;  and  the  28th  took  up  once  more 
the  Parthian  game  in  which  they  were  growing 
expert.  For  three  miles  along  the  climbing  road 
they  marched,  faced  about  for  a  skirmish,  drove 
back  their  pursuers,  and  marched  forward  again, 
always  in  good  order;  the  enemy  being  encum- 
bered by  its  cavalry,  which,  useless  from  the 
first  in  this  rough  and  wavering  track,  at  length 
became  an  impediment  and  a  serious  peril.  It 
was  by  fairly  stampeding  a  troop  back  upon  the 
foot-soldiers  following  that  the  British  in  the 
end  checked  the  immediate  danger,  and,  hurry- 
[252] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

ing  forward  unmolested  for  a  couple  of  miles, 
gained  a  new  position  in  which  they  could  not 
easily  be  assailed.  The  road  here  wound  between 
a  line  of  cliffs  and  a  precipice  giving  a  sheer  drop 
into  the  ravine;  and  here,  without  need  of  flankers 
or,  indeed,  possibility  of  using  them,  the  rear- 
most (light)  company,  halted  for  a  while  and 
faced  about. 

This  brought  their  right  shoulders  round  to  the 
precipice,  at  the  foot  of  which,  and  close  upon 
three  hundred  feet  below,  a  narrow  plateau  (or 
so  it  seemed)  curved  around  the  rock-face.  The 
French,  held  at  check,  and  once  more  declining 
a  frontal  attack,  detached  a  body  of  cavalry  and 
voltigeurs  to  follow  this  path  in  the  hope  of  turn- 
ing one  flank.  But  a  week's  snow  had  smoothed 
over  the  true  contour  of  the  valley,  and  this 
apparent  plateau  proved  to  be  but  a  gorge  piled 
to  its  brim  with  drifts,  in  which  men  and  horses 
plunged  and  sank  until,  repenting,  they  had 
much  ado  to  extricate  themselves. 

On  the  ledge  over  their  heads  a  young  subaltern 
of  the  28th  —  the  same  that  Paget  had  sent  to 
count  the  numbers  crossing  the  fords  —  was 
looking  down  and  laughing,  when  a  pompous 
voice  at  his  elbow  inquired  — 

"Pray,  Sir,  where  is  General  Paget?" 
[253] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

The  subaltern,  glancing  up  quickly,  saw, 
planted  on  horseback  before  him,  with  legs 
astraddle,  a  podgy,  red-faced  man  in  a  blue  uni- 
form buttoned  to  the  chin.  The  General  him- 
self happened  to  be  standing  less  than  five  yards 
away,  resting  his  elbows  on  the  wall  of  the  road 
while  he  scanned  the  valley  and  the  struggling 
Frenchmen  through  his  glass:  and  the  subaltern, 
knowing  that  he  must  have  heard  the  question, 
for  the  moment  made  no  reply. 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  answer  at  once,  Sir  ?  Where 
is  General  Paget?" 

The  General  closed  his  glass  leisurably  and 
came  forward. 

"  I  am  General  Paget,  Sir  —  at  your  com- 
mands." 

"Oh  —  ah  —  er,  I  beg  pardon,"  said  the  little 
blue-coated  man,  slewing  about  in  his  saddle. 
"  I  am  Paymaster-General,  and  —  er  —  the  fact 
is " 

"  Paymaster-General  ? "  echoed  Paget  in  a  soft 
and  musing  tone,  as  if  deliberately  searching  his 
memory. 

"Assistant,"  the  little  man  corrected. 

"Get  down  from  your  horse,  Sir." 

"I  beg  pardon-     -" 

"Get  down  from  your  horse." 

[254] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

The  Assistant-Paymaster  clambered  off.     His 

vanity  was  wounded  and  he  showed  it;  the  mottles 

on  his  face  deepened  to  crimson.     "Beg  pardon 

-  ceremony  —  hardly  an  occasion  —  treasure  of 

the  army  in  danger." 

Paget  eyed  him  calmly,  but  with  a  darkening 
at  the  corner  of  the  eye;  a  sign  which  the  watch- 
ing subaltern  knew  to  be  ominous. 

"  Be  a  little  more  explicit,  if  you  please." 

"The  treasure,  Sir,  for  which  I  am  respon- 
sible  " 

"Yes?     How  much?" 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  ought 

"How  much?" 

"If  you  press  the  question,  Sir,  it  might  be 
twenty-five  thousand  pounds.  I  should  not  have 

mentioned  it  in  the  hearing  of  your  men '  he 

hesitated. 

The  General  concluded  his  sentence  for  him. 

—  Had  not  your  foresight  placed  it  in  safety  and 
out  of  their  reach:  that's  understood.     Well,  Sir, 
-what  then  ?" 

"But,  on  the  contrary,  General,  it  is  in  immi- 
nent peril!  The  carts  conveying  it  have  stuck 
fast,  not  a  mile  ahead:  the  bullocks  are  foundered 
and  cannot  proceed;  and  I  have  ridden  back  to 
request  that  you  supply  me  with  fresh  animals." 
[255] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

"Look  at  me,  Sir,  and  then  pray  look  about  you." 

"  I   beg  your  pardon 

"You  ought  to.  Am  I  a  bullock-driver,  Sir, 
or  a  muleteer?  And  in  this  country"  -with  a 
sharp  wave  of  his  hand—  "can  I  breed  full- 
grown  mules  or  bullocks  at  a  moment's  notice 
to  repair  your  d d  incompetence  ?  Or,  know- 
ing me,  have  you  the  assurance  to  tell  me  coolly 
that  you  have  lost  —  yes,  lost  —  the  treasure 
committed  to  you  ?  —  to  confess  that  you,  who 
ought  to  be  a  day's  march  ahead  of  the  main  body, 
are  hanging  back  upon  the  rearmost  company 
of  the  rearguard  ?  —  and  come  to  me  whining 
when  that  company  is  actually  engaged  with  the 
enemy?  Look,  Sir"  —and  it  seemed  to  some  of 
the  28th  that  their  General  mischievously  pro- 
longed his  address  to  give  the  Assistant-Pay- 
master a  taste  of  rearguard  work,  for  Soult's 
heavy  columns  were  by  this  time  pressing  near 
to  the  entrance  of  the  defile  —  "  Observe  the  kind 
of  strife  in  which  we  have  been  engaged  since 
dawn;  reflect  that  our  tempers  must  needs  be 
short;  and  congratulate  yourself  that,  if  this 
mountain  be  bare  of  fresh  bullocks,  it  also  fails 
to  supply  a  handy  tree." 

The  little  man  waited  no  longer  on  the  road, 
along  which  French  bullets  were  beginning  to 

[256] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

whistle,  but  clambered  on  his  horse,  and  galloped 
off  with  hunched  shoulders  to  rejoin  his  carts. 

The  rearguard,  galled  now  by  musketry  and 
finding  that,  for  all  their  floundering,  the  enemy 
were  creeping  past  the  rocky  barrier  below,  re- 
tired in  good  order  but  briskly,  and  so,  in  about 
twenty  minutes,  overtook  the  two  treasure-carts 
and  their  lines  of  exhausted  cattle.  Plainly  this 
procession  had  come  to  the  end  of  its  powers  and 
could  not  budge:  and  as  plainly  the  officers  in 
charge  of  it  were  at  loggerheads.  Paget  sur- 
veyed the  scene,  his  brow  darkening  thunderously: 
for,  of  the  guns  he  had  sent  forward  to  overtake 
the  reserve,  two  stood  planted  to  protect  the 
carts,  and  the  artillery-captain  in  charge  of  them 
was  being  harangued  by  the  fuming  Assistant- 
Paymaster,  while  the  actual  guard  of  the  treasure 
-  a  subaltern's  party  of  the  4th  (King's  Own)  - 
stood  watching  the  altercation  in  surly  contempt. 
Now  the  28th  and  the  King's  Own  were  old 
friends,  having  been  brigaded  together  through 
the  early  days  of  the  campaign.  As  Paget  rode 
forward  they  exchanged  hilarious  grins. 

"Pray,    Sir,"    he    addressed    the    artilleryman, 
"why   are   you   loitering   here   when   ordered   to 
overtake   the   main   body  with   all   speed  ?     And 
what  are  you  discussing  with  this  person  ?" 
[257] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

"The  Colonel,  Sir,  detached  me  at  this  officer's 
request." 

"Hey  ?"  Paget  swung  round  on  the  Assistant- 
Paymaster.  "You  dared  to  interfere  with  an 
order  of  mine  ?  And,  having  done  so,  you  for- 
bore to  tell  me,  just  now,  the  extent  of  your  im- 
pudence!" 

"But  —  but  the  bullocks  can  go  no  farther!" 
stammered  the  poor  man. 

"And  if  so,  who  is  responsible?  Are  you, 
Sir  ?"  Paget  demanded  suddenly  of  the  subaltern. 

"  No,  General,"  the  young  man  answered,  salut- 
ing. "  I  beg  to  say  that  as  far  back  as  Nogales  I 
pointed  out  the  condition  of  these  beasts,  and  also 
where  in  that  place  fresh  animals  were  to  be  found: 
but  I  was  bidden  to  hold  my  tongue." 

"Do  you  admit  this?"  Paget  swung  round 
again  upon  the  Assistant-Paymaster. 

"Upon  my  word,  Sir,"  the  poor  man  tried  to 
bluster,  "I  am  not  to  be  cross-examined  in  this 
fashion.  I  do  not  belong  to  the  reserve,  and  I 
take  my  orders " 

"Then  what  the  devil  are  you  doing  here? 
And  how  is  it  I  catch  you  ordering  my  reserve 
about  ?  By  the  look  of  it,  a  moment  ago  you 
were  even  attempting  to  teach  my  horse-artillery 
its  business." 

[258] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

"He  was  urging  me,  Sir,"  said  the  artillery- 
captain  grimly,  "to  abandon  my  guns  and  hitch 
my  teams  on  to  his  carts." 

The  General's  expression  changed,  and  he  bent 
upon  the  little  man  in  blue  a  smile  that  was  almost 
caressing.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir:  it  appears 
that  I  have  quite  failed  to  appreciate  you." 

"Do  not  mention  it,  Sir.  You  see,  with  a  sum 
of  twenty-five  thousand  pounds  at  stake  - 

"And  your  reputation." 

"To  be  sure,  and  my  reputation;  though  that, 
I  assure  you,  was  less  in  my  thoughts.  With  all 
this  at  stake " 

"Say  rather  'lost.'  I  am  going  to  pitch  it 
down  the  mountain." 

"But  it  is  money!"  almost  screamed  the  little 
man. 

"So  are  shot  and  shells.  Twenty-eighth,  for- 
ward, and  help  the  guard  to  overturn  the  carts!" 

Even  the  soldiers  were  staggered  for  a  moment 
by  this  order.  Impossible  as  they  saw  it  to  be 
to  save  the  treasure,  they  were  men;  and  the  in- 
stinct of  man  revolts  from  pouring  twenty-five 
thousand  pounds  over  a  precipice.  They  ap- 
proached, unstrapped  the  tarpaulin  covers,  and 
feasted  their  eyes  on  stacks  of  silver  Spanish 
dollars. 

[259] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

"You  cannot  mean  it,  Sir!  I  hold  you  respon- 
sible   "  Speech  choked  the  Assistant-Pay- 
master, and  he  waved  wild  arms  in  dumbshow. 

But  the  General  did  mean  it.  At  a  word  from 
him  the  artillerymen  stood  to  their  guns,  and  at 
another  word  the  fatigue  party  of  the  28th  climbed 
off  the  carts,  put  their  shoulders  to  the  wheels  and 
axle-trees,  and  with  a  heave  sent  the  treasure  over 
in  a  jingling  avalanche.  A  few  ran  and  craned 
their  necks  to  mark  where  it  fell:  but  the  cliffs 
just  here  were  sharply  undercut,  and  everywhere 
below  spread  deep  drifts  to  receive  and  cover  it 
noiselessly.  After  the  first  rush  and  slide  no 
sound  came  up  from  the  depths  into  which  it  had 
disappeared.  The  men  strained  their  ears  to 
listen.  They  were  listening  still  when,  with  a 
roar,  the  two  guns  behind  them  spoke  out,  hurl- 
ing their  salutation  into  Soult's  advance  guard 
as  it  swung  into  view  around  the  corner  of  the 
road. 

II 

In  a  mud-walled  hut  perched  over  the  brink 
of  the  ravine  and  sheltered  there  by  a  shelving 
rock,  an  old  Gallegan  peasant  sat  huddled  over 
a  fire  and  face  to  face  with  starvation.  The  fire, 
banked  in  the  centre  of  the  earthen  floor,  filled 
[260] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

all  the  cabin  with  smoke,  which  escaped  only  by 
a  gap  in  the  thatch  and  a  window-hole  overlook- 
ing the  ravine.  An  iron  crock,  on  a  chain  furred 
with  soot,  hung  from  the  rafters,  where  sooty 
cobwebs,  a  foot  and  more  in  length,  waved  noise- 
lessly in  the  draught.  It  was  empty,  but  he  had 
no  strength  to  lift  it  off  its  hook;  and  at  the  risk 
of  cracking  it  he  had  piled  up  the  logs  on  the 
hearth,  for  the  cold  searched  his  old  bones. 
The  windowhole  showed  a  patch  of  fading  day, 
wintry  and  sullen:  but  no  beam  of  it  penetrated 
within,  where  the  firelight  flickered  murkily  on 
three  beds  of  dirty  straw,  a  table  like  a  butcher's 
block,  and,  at  the  back  of  the  hut,  an  alcove 
occupied  by  three  sooty  dolls  beneath  a  crucifix 
—  the  Virgin,  St.  Joseph,  and  St.  James. 

The  alcove  was  just  a  recess  scooped  out  of 
the  adobe  wall:  and  the  old  man  himself  could 
not  have  told  why  his  house  had  been  built  of  un- 
baked mud  when  so  much  loose  stone  lay  strewn 
about  the  mountain-side  ready  to  hand.  Possibly 
even  his  ancestors,  who  had  built  it,  could  not 
have  told.  They  had  come  from  the  plain-land 
near  Zamora,  and  built  in  the  only  fashion  they 
knew  —  a  fashion  which  their  ancestors  had 
learnt  from  the  Moors:  but  time  and  the  moun- 
tain's bad  habit  of  dropping  stones  had  taught 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

them  to  add  a  stout  roof.  For  generations  they 
had  clung  to  this  perch,  and  held  body  and  soul 
together  by  the  swine-herding.  They  pastured 
their  pigs  three  miles  below,  where  the  ravine 
opened  upon  a  valley  moderately  fertile  and 
wooded  with  oak  and  chestnut;  and  in  midwinter 
drove  them  back  to  the  hill  and  styed  them  in  a 
large  pen  beside  the  hut,  in  which,  if  the  pen  were 
crowded,  they  made  room  for  the  residue. 

The  family  now  consisted  of  the  old  man,  Gil 
Chaleco  (a  widower  and  past  work);  his  son  Gil 
the  Younger,  with  a  wife,  Juana;  their  only 
daughter,  Mercedes,  her  young  husband,  Sebastian 
May,  and  their  two-year-old  boy.  The  two 
women  worked  with  the  men  in  herding  the  swine 
and  were  given  sole  charge  of  them  annually, 
when  Gil  the  Younger  and  Sebastian  tramped  it 
down  to  the  plains  and  hired  themselves  out  for 
the  harvest. 

But  this  year  Sebastian,  instead  of  harvesting, 
had  departed  for  Corunna  to  join  the  insurrec- 
tionary bands  and  carry  a  gun  in  defence  of  his 
country.  To  Gil  the  Elder  this  was  a  piece  of 
youthful  folly.  How  could  it  matter,  in  this 
valley  of  theirs,  what  King  reigned  in  far-away 
Madrid  ?  And  would  a  Spaniard  any  more  than 
a  Corsican  make  good  the  lost  harvest-money? 
[262] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

The  rest  of  the  family  had  joined  him  in  raising 
objections;  for  in  this  den  of  poverty  the  three 
elders  thought  of  money  morning,  noon,  and 
night,  and  of  nothing  but  money;  and  Mercedes 
was  young  and  in  love  with  her  husband,  and 
sorely  unwilling  to  lend  him  to  the  wars.  Sebastian, 
however,  had  smiled  and  kissed  her  and  gone  his 
way;  and  at  the  end  of  his  soldiery  had  found 
himself,  poor  lad,  in  hospital  in  Leon,  one  of  the 
many  hundreds  abandoned  by  the  Marquis  of 
Romana  to  the  French. 

News  of  this  had  not  reached  the  valley,  where 
indeed  his  wife's  family  had  other  trouble  to  con- 
cern them:  for  a  forage  party  from  the  retreating 
British  main  guard  had  descended  upon  the 
cabin  four  days  ago  and  carried  off  all  the  swine, 
leaving  in  exchange  some  scraps  of  paper,  which 
(they  said)  would  be  honoured  next  day  by  the 
Assistant-Paymaster:  he  could  not  be  more  than 
a  day's  march  behind.  But  a  day  had  passed, 
and  another,  and  now  the  household  had  gone  off 
to  Nogales  to  meet  him  on  the  road,  leaving  only 
the  old  man,  and  taking  even  little  Sebastianillo. 
The  pigs  would  be  paid  for  handsomely  by  the 
rich  English;  Juana  had  some  purchases  to  make 
in  the  town;  and  Mercedes  needed  to  buy  a 
shawl  for  the  child,  and  thought  it  would  be  a 
[263] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

treat  for  him  to  see  the  tall  foreign  redcoats 
marching  past. 

So  they  had  started,  leaving  the  old  man  with  a 
day's  provision  (for  the  foragers  had  cleared  the 
racks  and  the  larder  as  well  as  the  sty),  and 
promising  to  be  home  before  nightfall.  But  two 
days  and  a  night  had  passed  without  news  of  them. 

With  his  failing  strength  he  had  made  shift  to 
keep  the  fire  alight;  but  food  was  not  to  be  found. 
He  had  eaten  his  last  hard  crust  of  millet-bread 
seven  or  eight  hours  before,  and  this  had  been  his 
only  breakfast.  His  terror  for  the  fate  of  the 
family  was  not  acute.  Old  age  had  dulled  his 
faculties,  and  he  dozed  by  the  fire  with  sudden 
starts  of  wakefulness,  blinking  his  smoke-sored 
eyes  and  gazing  with  a  vague  sense  of  evil  on  the 
straw  beds  and  the  image  in  the  alcove.  His 
thoughts  ran  on  the  swine  and  the  price  to  be 
paid  for  them  by  the  Englishman:  they  faded  into 
dreams  wherein  the  family  saints  stepped  down 
from  their  shrine  and  chaffered  with  the  foreign 
paymaster;  dreams  in  which  he  found  himself 
grasping  silver  dollars  with  both  hands.  And 
all  the  while  he  was  hungry  to  the  point  of  dying; 
yet  the  visionary  dollars  brought  no  food  —  sug- 
gested only  the  impulse  to  bury  them  out  of  sight 
of  thieves. 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

So  vivid  was  the  dream  that,  waking  with  a 
start  and  a  shiver,  he  hobbled  towards  the  window- 
hole  and  stopped  to  pick  up  the  wooden  shutter 
that  should  close  it.  Standing  so,  still  half  asleep, 
with  his  hand  on  the  shutter-bar,  he  heard  a 
rushing  sound  behind  him,  as  though  the  moun- 
tain-side were  breaking  away  overhead  and  rush- 
ing down  upon  the  roof  and  back  of  the  cabin. 

He  had  spent  all  his  life  on  these  slopes  and 
knew  the  sounds  of  avalanche  and  land-slips  — 
small  land-slips  in  this  Gallegan  valley  were 
common  enough.  This  noise  resembled  both, 
yet  resembled  neither,  and  withal  was  so  terrify- 
ing that  he  swung  round  to  face  it,  aquake  in  his 
shoes  —  to  see  the  rear  wall  bowing  inwards  and 
crumbling,  and  the  roof  quietly  subsiding  upon 
it,  as  if  to  bury  him  alive. 

For  a  moment  he  saw  it  as  the  mirror  of  his 
dream,  cracking  and  splitting;  then,  as  the  image 
of  the  Virgin  tilted  itself  forward  from  its  shrine 
and  fell  with  a  crash,  he  dropped  the  shutter, 
and  running  to  the  door,  tugged  at  its  heavy 
wooden  bolt.  The  hut  was  collapsing,  and  he 
must  escape  into  the  open  air. 

He  neither  screamed  nor  shouted,  for  his  terror 
throttled  him;  and  after  the  first  rushing  noise 
the  wall  bowed  inwards  silently,  with  but  a  trickle 

[265] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

of  dry  and  loosened  mud.  His  gaze,  cast  back 
across  his  shoulder,  was  on  it  while  he  tugged  at 
the  bolt.  Slowly  —  very  slowly,  the  roof  sank, 
and  stayed  itself,  held  up  on  either  hand  by  its 
two  corner-props.  Then,  while  it  came  to  a 
standstill,  sagging  between  them,  the  wall  be- 
neath it  burst  asunder,  St.  Joseph  and  St.  James 
were  flung  head-over-heels  after  the  Virgin,  and 
through  the  rent  poured  a  broad  river  of  silver. 

He  faced  around  gradually,  holding  his  breath. 
His  back  was  to  the  door  now,  and  he  leaned 
against  it  with  outspread  palms  while  his  eyes 
devoured  the  miracle. 

Dollars!     Silver  dollars! 

He  could  not  lift  his  gaze  from  them.  If  he 
did,  they  would  surely  vanish,  and  he  awake  from 
his  dream.  Yet  in  the  very  shock  of  awe,  and 
starving  though  he  was,  the  master-habit  of  his 
life,  the  secretive  peasant  cunning,  had  already 
begun  to  work.  Never  once  relaxing  his  fixed 
stare,  fearful  even  of  blinking  with  his  smoke- 
sored  eyes,  he  shuffled  sideways  toward  the 
window-hole,  his  hands  groping  the  wall  behind 
him.  The  wooden  shutter  and  its  fastening  bar 
—  a  short  oak  pole  —  lay  where  he  had  dropped 
them,  on  the  floor  beneath  the  window.  He 
crouched,  feeling  backwards  for  them;  found, 
[266] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

lifted  them  on  to  the  inner  ledge,  and,  with  a 
half-turn  of  his  body,  thrust  one  arm  deep  into 
the  recess  and  jammed  the  shutter  into  its  place. 
To  fix  the  bolt  was  less  easy;  it  fitted  across  the 
back  of  the  shutter,  its  ends  resting  in  two 
sockets  pierced  in  the  wall  of  the  recess.  He 
could  use  but  one  hand;  yet  in  less  than  a  minute 
he  found  the  first  socket,  slid  an  end  of  the  bolt 
into  it  as  far  as  it  would  go,  lifted  the  other  end 
and  scraped  with  it  along  the  opposite  side  of  the 
recess  until  it  dropped  into  the  second  socket. 
He  was  safe  now  —  safe  from  prying  eyes.  In 
all  this  while  —  these  two,  perhaps  three,  minutes 
—  his  uppermost  terror  had  been  lest  strange 
eyes  were  peering  in  through  the  window-hole: 
it  had  cost  him  anguish  not  to  remove  his  own 
for  an  instant  from  the  miracle  to  assure  himself. 
But  he  had  shut  out  this  terror  now:  and  the 
miracle  had  not  vanished. 

A  few  coins  trickled  yet.  He  crawled  forward 
acros.s  the  floor,  crouching  like  a  beast  for  a 
spring.  But  as  he  drew  close  his  old  legs  began 
to  shake  under  him.  He  dropped  on  his  knees 
and  fell  forward,  plunging  both  hands  into  the 
bright  pile. 

Dollars!  real  silver  dollars! 

He  lay  on  the  flood  of  wealth,  stretched  like  a 

[267] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

swimmer,  his  fingers  feebly  moving  among  the 
coins  which  slid  and  poured  over  the  back  of  his 
hands.  He  did  not  ask  how  the  miracle  had 
befallen.  He  was  starving;  dying  in  fact,  though 
he  did  not  know  it;  and  lo!  he  had  found  a  heaven 
beyond  all  imagination,  and  lay  in  it  and  panted, 
at  rest.  The  firelight  played  on  the  heave  and 
fall  of  his  gaunt  shoulder-blades,  and  on  the 
glass  eyes  of  the  Virgin,  whose  head  had  rolled 
half-way  across  the  floor  and  lay  staring  up 
foolishly  at  the  rafters. 

"Mother,  open!  Ah,  open  quickly,  mother, 
for  the  love  of  God!" 

Whose  voice  was  that?  Yes,  yes  —  Mercedes', 
to  be  sure,  his  granddaughter's.  She  had  gone 
to  Nogales  .  .  .  long  ago  .  .  .  Yet  that  was  her 
voice.  Had  he  come,  then,  to  Paradise  that  her 
voice  was  pleading  for  him  —  pleading  for  the 
door  to  open  ? 

"Mother  —  Father!  It  is  I,  Mercedes!  Open 
quickly  —  It  is  Mercedes,  do  you  hear  ?  I  want 
my  child  —  Sebastianillo  —  my  child  —  quick!" 

The  voice  broke  into  short  agonised  cries,  into 
sobs.  The  door  rattled. 

At  the  sound  of  this  last  the  old  man  raised 
himself  on  his  knees.  His  eyes  fell  again  on  the 

[268] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

shining  dollars  all  around  him.  His  throat 
worked. 

Suddenly  terror  broke  out  in  beads  on  his  fore- 
head. Someone  was  shaking  the  door!  Thieves 
were  there  trying  the  door:  they  were  come  to 
rob  him! 

He  drew  himself  up  slowly.  As  he  did  so  the 
door  ceased  to  rattle,  and  presently,  somewhere 
near  the  windy  edge  of  the  ravine,  a  faint  cry 
sounded. 

But  long  after  the  door  had  ceased  to  rattle, 
old  Gil  Chaleco  stared  at  it,  fascinated.  And 
long  after  the  cry  had  died  away  it  beat  from  side 
to  side  within  the  walls  of  his  head,  while  he 
listened  and  life  trickled  from  him,  drop  by  drop. 

"Thou  shalt  not  be  afraid  for  the  terror  by 
night."  But  he  was  listening  for  it:  it  would  come 
again.  .  .  . 

And  it  came  —  with  a  rough  summons  on  the 
door,  and,  a  moment  later,  with  a  thunderous 
blow.  The  old  man  stood  up,  knee-deep  in 
dollars,  lifting  both  arms  to  cover  his  head.  As 
the  door  fell  he  seemed  to  bow  himself  toward 
it,  toppled,  and  slid  forward  —  still  with  his  arms 
crooked  —  amid  a  rush  of  silver. 


[269] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

III 

Although  crushed  in  the  rear  and  broken  in- 
wards there,  the  hut  showed  its  ordinary  face  to 
the  path  as  Mercedes  reached  it  in  the  failing 
daylight.  She  ran  like  a  madwoman,  and  with 
short,  distraught  cries,  as  she  neared  her  home. 
Her  eyes  were  wild  as  a  hunted  creature's,  her 
coarse  black  hair  streamed  over  her  shoulders, 
her  bare  feet  bled  where  the  rocks  and  ice  had 
cut  them.  But  one  thing  she  did  not  doubt  — 
would  not  allow  herself  to  doubt  —  that  at  home 
she  would  find  her  child.  For  two  days  she  had 
been  parted  from  him,  and  in  those  two  days  .  .  . 
God  had  been  good  to  her,  very  good:  but  she 
could  not  thank  God  yet  —  not  until  she  clutched 
Sebastianillo  in  her  arms,  held  his  small,  wriggling 
body,  felt  his  feet  kick  against  her  breast.  .  .  . 

The  great  sty  beside  the  cabin  was  empty,  of 
course:  and  the  cabin  itself  looked  strange  to  her 
and  desolate  and  unfriendly.  For  some  hours 
the  snow  had  ceased  falling,  and,  save  in  a  snow- 
storm or  a  gale,  it  was  not  the  family  custom  to 
close  door  or  window  before  dark:  indeed,  the 
window-hole  usually  stood  open  night  and  day 
the  year  round.  Now  both  were  closed.  But 
warm  firelight  showed  under  the  chink  of  the 
[270] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

door;  and  on  the  door  she  bowed  her  head,  to 
take  breath,  and  beat  with  her  hands  while  she 
called  urgently  — 

"Mother!  Quickly,  mother  —  open  to  me  for 
the  love  of  God!" 

No  answer  came  from  within. 

"Mother!  Father!  Open  to  me  —  it  is  I, 
Mercedes!" 

Then,  after  listening  a  moment,  she  began  to 
beat  again,  frantically,  for  at  length  she  was 
afraid. 

"Quick!  Quick!  Ah,  do  not  be  playing  a 
trick  on  me:  I  want  my  child  —  Sebastianillo!" 

Again  and  again  she  called  and  beat.  No 
answer  came  from  the  hut  or  from  the  sombre 
twilight  around  her.  She  drew  back,  to  fling  her 
full  weight  against  the  door.  And  at  this  moment 
she  heard,  some  way  down  the  path,  a  man's 
footstep  crunching  the  snow. 

She  never  doubted  that  this  must  be  her  father 
returning  up  the  mountain-side,  perhaps  after  a 
search  for  her.  What  other  man  —  now  that 
her  husband  had  gone  soldiering  —  ever  trod 
this  path  ?  She  ran  down  to  meet  him. 

The  path,  about  forty  yards  below,  rounded 
an  angle  of  the  sheer  cliff,  and  at  this  angle  she 
came  to  a  terrified  halt.  The  man,  too,  had 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

halted  a  short  gunshot  away.  He  did  not  see 
her,  but  was  staring  upward  at  the  cliff  overhead; 
and  he  was  not  her  father.  For  an  instant  there 
flashed  across  her  brain  an  incredible  surmise  — 
that  he  was  her  husband,  Sebastian:  for  he  wore 
a  soldier's  overcoat  and  shako,  and  carried  a 
musket  and  knapsack.  But  no:  this  man  was 
taller  than  Sebastian  by  many  inches;  taller  and 
thinner. 

He  was  a  soldier,  then:  and  to  Mercedes  all 
soldiers  were  by  this  time  incarnate  devils  —  or 
all  but  one,  and  that  one  a  plucky  little  British 
officer  who  had  snatched  her  from  his  men  just 
as  she  fell  swooning  into  their  clutches,  and  had 
dragged  and  thrust  her  through  the  convent 
doorway  at  Nogales  and  slammed  the  door  upon 
her;  and  (though  this  she  did  not  know)  held  the 
doorstep,  sword  in  hand,  while  the  Fathers  within 
shot  the  heavy  bolts. 

The  British  had  gone,  and  after  them  —  close 
after  —  came  the  French :  and  these  broke  down 
the  convent  door  and  ransacked  the  place.  But 
the  Fathers  had  hidden  her  and  a  score  or  so 
more  of  trembling  women,  nor  would  allow  her  to 
creep  out  and  search  for  Sebastianillo  in  the 
streets  through  which  swept,  hour  after  hour, 
a  flood  of  drunken  yelling  devils.  So  now  Mer- 
[272] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

cedes,  who  had  left  home  two  days  ago  to  watch 
an  army  pass,  turned  from  this  one  soldier  with  a 
scream  and  ran  back  towards  the  cabin. 

In  her  terror  lest  he  should  overtake  and  catch 
her  by  the  closed  door,  she  darted  aside,  clambered 
across  the  wall  of  the  empty  sty,  and  crouched 
behind  it  in  the  filth,  clutching  at  her  bodice:  for 
within  her  bodice  was  a  knife,  which  she  had 
borrowed  of  the  Fathers  at  Nogales. 

The  footsteps  came  up  the  path  and  went 
slowly  past  her  hiding-place.  Then  they  came 
to  a  halt  before  the  hut.  Still  Mercedes  crouched, 
not  daring  to  lift  her  head. 

Raty  rat-a-tat! 

Well,  let  him  knock.  Her  father  was  a  strong 
man,  and  always  kept  a  loaded  gun  on  the  shelf. 
If  this  soldier  meant  mischief,  he  would  find  his 
match:  and  she,  too,  could  help. 

She  heard  him  call  to  the  folks  within  once  or 
twice  in  bad  Spanish.  Then  his  voice  changed 
and  seemed  to  threaten  in  a  language  she  did  not 
know. 

Her  hand  was  thrust  within  her  bodice  now,  and 
gripped  the  handle  of  her  knife;  nevertheless, 
what  followed  took  her  by  surprise,  though  ready 
for  action.  A  terrific  bang  sounded  on  the  tim- 
bers of  the  door.  Involuntarily  she  raised  her 
[273] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

head  above  the  wall's  coping.  The  man  had 
stepped  back  a  pace  into  the  path,  and  was 
swinging  his  musket  up  for  another  blow  with 
the  butt. 

She  stood  up,  white,  with  her  jaw  set.  Her 
father  could  not  be  inside  the  hut,  or  he  would 
have  answered  that  blow  on  his  door  as  a  man 
should.  But  Sebastianillo  might  be  within  — 
nay,  must  be!  She  put  her  hands  to  the  wall's 
coping  and  swung  herself  over  and  on  to  the 
path,  again  unseen,  for  the  dusk  hid  her,  and  a 
dark  background  of  cliff  behind  the  sty :  nor  could 
the  man  hear,  for  he  was  raining  blow  after  blow 
upon  the  door.  At  length,  having  shaken  it 
loose  from  its  hasp,  he  stepped  back  and  made  a 
run  at  it,  using  the  butt  of  his  musket  for  a  ram, 
and  finishing  up  the  charge  with  the  full  weight 
of  one  shoulder.  The  door  crashed  open  before 
him,  and  he  reeled  over  it  into  the  hut.  A  second 
later,  Mercedes  had  sprung  after  him. 

"Sebastianillo!  You  shall  not  harm  him!  You 
shall  not " 

The  door,  falling  a  little  short  of  the  fire,  had 
scattered  some  of  the  buring  brands  about  the 
floor  and  fanned  the  rest  into  a  blaze.  In  the 
light  of  it  he  faced  round  with  a  snarl,  his  teeth 
showing  beneath  his  moustache.  The  light  also 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

showed  —  though  Mercedes  neither  noted  it  nor 
could  have  read  its  signification  —  a  corporal's 
chevron  on  his  sleeve. 

"Who  the  devil  are  you?"  The  snarl  ended 
in  a  snap. 

Mercedes  stood  swaying  on  the  threshold,  knife 
in  hand. 

"You  shall  not  harm  him!" 

She  spoke  in  her  own  tongue  and  he  under- 
stood it,  after  a  fashion;  for  he  answered  in 
broken  Spanish,  catching  up  her  word  - 

"  Harm  ?  Who  means  any  harm  ?  When  a 
man  is  perishing  with  hunger  and  folks  will  not 
open  to  him " 

He  paused,  wondering  at  her  gaze.  Travelling 
past  him,  it  had  fastened  itself  on  the  back  wall 
of  the  hut,  across  the  fire.  "Hullo!  What's  the 
matter?"  He  swung  round.  "Good  Lord!" 
said  he,  with  a  gulp. 

He  sprang  past  the  fire  and  stooped  over  the 
old  man's  body,  which  lay  face  downward  on  the 
shelving  heap  of  silver.  It  did  not  stir.  By-and- 
by  he  took  it  by  one  of  the  rigid  arms  and  turned 
it  over,  not  roughly. 

"Warm,"  said  he:  "warm,  but  dead  as  a  her- 
ring! Come  and  see  for  yourself." 

Mercedes  did  not  move.     Her  eyes  sought  the 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

dark  corners  of  the  cabin,  fixed  themselves  for  a 
moment  on  the  shattered  image  of  the  Virgin, 
and  met  his  across  the  firelight  in  desperate 
inquiry. 

"What  is  this  ?    What  have  you  done  ?" 

"Done?  I  tell  you  I  never  touched  the  man; 
never  saw  him  before  in  my  life.  Who  is  he  ? 
Your  father  ?  No :  grandfather,  more  like.  Eh  ? 
Am  I  right?" 

She  bent  her  head,  staring  at  the  money. 

"This  ?  This  is  dollars,  my  girl:  dollars  enough 
to  set  a  man  up  for  life,  with  a  coach  and  lads  in 
livery,  and  dress  you  in  diamonds  from  head  to 
heel.  Don't  stand  playing  with  that  knife.  I 
tell  you  I  never  touched  the  old  man.  What's 
more,  I'm  willing  to  be  friendly  and  go  shares." 
He  stared  at  her  with  quick  suspicion.  "You're 
alone  here,  hey  ? " 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  But  answer  me,"  he  insisted,  "  do  you  live 
alone  with  him?"  And  he  pointed  to  the  body 
at  his  feet. 

"There  was  my  mother,"  said  Mercedes  slowly, 
in  her  turn  pointing  to  the  third  bed  of  straw  by 
the  fire.  "We  journeyed  over  to  Nogales,  she 
and  I.  Your  soldiers  came  and  took  away  our 
pigs,  giving  us  pieces  of  paper  for  them.  They 

[276] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

said  that  if  we  took  these  to  Nogales  someone 
would  pay  us:  so  we  started,  leaving  him.  And 
at  Nogales  your  men  were  rough  and  parted  us, 
and  I  have  not  seen  her  since." 

The  Corporal  eyed  her  with  the  beginnings  of 
a  leer.  She  faced  him  with  steady  eyes.  "Well, 
well,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  "I  mean  no  harm 
to  you,  anyway.  Lord!  but  you're  in  luck. 
Here  you  reach  home  and  find  a  fortune  at  your 
door  —  a  sort  of  fortune  a  man  can  dig  into  with 

a  spade;  while  a  poor  devil  like  me '  He 

paused  again  and  stood  considering. 

"You  knew  about  this  ?"  She  nodded  towards 
the  dollars.  "You  knew  how  it  came  here,  and 
you  came  after  it  ?" 

"I  did  and  I  didn't.  I  knew  'twas  somewhere 
hereabouts;  but  strike  me,  if  a  man  could  dream 
of  finding  it  like  this!" 

"Yet  you  came  to  this  door  and  beat  it  open!" 

"You've  wits,  my  girl,"  said  the  Corporal 
admiringly;  "but  they  are  on  the  wrong  tack.  I 
mean  no  harm;  and  the  best  proof  is  that  here  I'm 
standing  with  a  loaded  musket  and  not  offering 
to  hurt  you.  As  it  happens,  I  came  to  the  door 
asking  a  bite  of  bread.  I'm  cruel  hungry." 

Mercedes  pulled  a  crust  of  millet-bread  from 
her  pocket.  The  Fathers  at  the  convent  had 

[277] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

given  it  to  her  at  parting,  but  she  had  forgotten 
to  eat.  She  stepped  forward;  the  Corporal 
stretched  out  a  hand. 

"No,"  said  she,  and,  avoiding  him,  laid  the 
crust  on  the  block-table.  He  caught  it  up  and 
gnawed  it  ravenously.  "I  think  there  is  no  other 
food  in  the  house." 

"You  don't  get  rid  of  me  like  that."  He  ran 
a  hand  along  the  shelves,  searching  them.  "Hullo! 
a  gun?"  He  took  it  down  and  examined  it  be- 
side the  fire,  while  Mercedes'  heart  sank.  She 
had  hoped  to  possess  herself  of  it,  snatching  it 
from  the  shelf  when  he  should  be  off  his  guard. 
"Loaded,  too!"  He  laid  it  gently  on  the  block 
and  eyed  her,  munching  his  crust. 

"You'd  best  put  down  that  knife  and  talk 
friendly,"  said  he  at  length.  "What's  the  use? 
—  you  a  woman,  and  me  with  two  guns,  both 
loaded  ?  It's  silliness;  you  must  see  for  yourself 
it  is.  Now  look  here:  I've  a  notion  —  a  splendid 
notion.  Come  sit  down  alongside  of  me,  and  talk 
it  over.  I  promise  you  there's  no  harm  meant." 

But  she  had  backed  to  her  former  position  in 
the  doorway  and  would  not  budge. 

"It's  treating  me  suspicious,  you  are,"  he 
grumbled:  "hard  and  suspicious." 

"Cannot  you  take  the  money  and  go?"  she 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

begged,  breathing  hard,  speaking  scarcely  above 
a  whisper. 

"No,  I  can't:  it  stands  to  reason  I  can't. 
What  can  I  do  in  a  country  like  this  with  dollars 
it  took  two  carts  to  drag  here  —  two  carts  with 
six  yoke  of  bullocks  apiece  ?  And  that's  where 
my  cruel  luck  comes  in.  All  I  can  take,  as  things 
are,  is  just  so  much  as  this  knapsack  will  carry: 
and  even  for  this  I've  run  some  risks." 

The  man  —  it  was  the  effect  of  hunger,  perhaps, 
and  exposure  and  drunkenness  on  past  marches 
—  had  an  ugly,  wolfish  face;  but  his  eyes,  though 
cunning,  were  not  altogether  evil,  not  quite 
formidably  evil.  She  divined  that,  though  lust 
for  the  money  was  driving  him,  some  weakness 
lay  behind  it. 

"You  are  a  deserter,"  she  said. 

"We'll  pass  that."  He  seated  himself,  fling- 
ing a  leg  over  the  block  and  laying  the  two  guns 
side  by  side  on  his  knees.  "I  can  win  back, 
maybe.  As  things  go,  between  stragglers  and 
deserters  it's  hard  to  choose  in  these  times,  and 
I'll  get  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  I've  taken 
some  risks,"  he  repeated,  glancing  from  the  guns 
on  his  knees  to  the  pile  of  silver  and  back:  "pretty 
bad  risks,  and  only  to  fill  my  knapsack.  But, 
now  it  strikes  me Can't  you  come  closer?" 

[279] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

But  she  held  her  ground  and  waited. 

"  It  strikes  me,  why  couldn't  we  collar  the  whole 
of  this,  we  two?  We're  alone:  no  one  knows; 
I've  but  to  lift  one  of  these" —  he  tapped  the  guns 
—  "  and  where  would  you  be  ?  But  I  don't  do  it. 
I  don't  want  to  do  it.  You  hear  me?" 

"You  don't  do  it,"  said  Mercedes  slowly,  "be- 
cause without  me  you  can't  get  away  with  more 
than  a  handful  of  this  money.  And  you  want 
the  whole  of  it." 

"You're  a  clever  girl.  Yes,  I  want  the  whole 
of  it.  Who  wouldn't  ?  And  you  can  help. 
Can't  you  see  how?" 

"No." 

He  sat  swinging  his  legs.  "Well,  that's  where 
my  notion  comes  in.  I  wish  you'd  drop  that 
knife  and  be  friendly:  it's  a  fortune  I'm  offering 
you.  Now  my  notion  is  that  we  two  ought  to 
marry."  He  stood  up. 

Mercedes  lifted  the  knife  with  its  point  turned 
inward  against  her  breast.  "  If  you  take  another 
step!" 

"Oh,  but  look  here:  look  at  it  every  way.  I 
like  you.  You're  a  fine  build  of  a  woman,  with 
plenty  of  spirit  —  the  very  woman  to  help  a  man. 
We  should  get  along  famously.  One  country's 
as  good  as  another  to  me :  I'm  tired  of  soldiering, 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

and  there's  no  woman  at  home,  s'  help  me!"  He 
was  speaking  rapidly  now,  not  waiting  to  cast 
about  for  words  in  Spanish,  but  falling  back  on 
English  whenever  he  found  himself  at  a  loss.  "  I 
dare  say  you  can  fit  me  out  with  a  suit  of  clothes." 
His  glance  ran  round  the  hut  and  rested  on  the 
body  of  the  old  man. 

Mercedes  had  understood  scarce  half  of  his 
words:  but  she  divined  the  meaning  of  that  look 
and  shuddered. 

"No,  no;  you  cannot  do  that!" 

"Hark!"  said  he  raising  his  head  and  listening. 
"What's  that  noise?" 

"The  wolves.  We  hear  them  every  night  in 
winter." 

"A  nice  sort  of  place  for  a  woman  to  live  alone 
in!  See  here,  my  dear;  it's  sense  I'm  talking. 
Better  fix  it  up  with  me  and  say  'yes.'" 

She  appeared  to  be  considering  this.  "One 
thing  you  must  promise." 

"Well?" 

"You  won't  touch  him"  —  she  nodded  towards 
her  grandfather's  corpse.  "You  won't  touch 
him  to  —  to 

"  Is  it  strip  him  you  mean  ?  Very  well,  then, 
I  won't." 

"You  will  help  me  to  bury  him?     He  cannot 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

lie  here.  I  can  give  you  no  answer  while  he  lies 
here." 

"  Right  you  are,  again.     Only,  no  tricks,  mind ! " 

He  stowed  the  guns  under  his  left  arm  and 
gripped  the  collar  of  the  old  man.  Mercedes 
took  the  feet;  and  together  they  bore  him  out  — 
a  light  burden  enough.  Outside  the  hut  a  pale 
radiance  lay  over  all  the  snow,  forerunner  of  the 
moon  now  rising  over  the  crags  across  the  ravine. 

"Where?"  grunted  the  Corporal. 

Mercedes  guided  him.  A  little  way  down  the 
path,  beyond  the  wall  of  the  sty,  they  came  to  a 
recess  in  the  base  of  the  cliff  where  the  wind's 
eddies  had  piled  a  smooth  mound  of  snow.  Here, 
under  a  jutting  rock,  they  laid  the  body. 

"Cover  him  as  best  you  can,"  the  Corporal 
ordered.  "My  hands  are  full." 

He  stood,  clasping  his  guns,  and  watched 
Mercedes  while  she  knelt  and  shovelled  the  snow 
with  both  hands.  Yet  always  her  eyes  were  alert 
and  she  kept  her  knife  ready.  From  their  mound 
they  looked  down  upon  the  ravine  in  front  and 
over  the  wall  of  the  sty  towards  the  cabin.  Be- 
hind them  rose  the  black  cliff. 

"Hark  to  the  wolves!"  said  the  Corporal, 
listening:  and  at  that  moment  something  thudded 
down  from  the  cliff,  striking  the  snow  a  few  yards 

[282] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

from  him;  rolled  heavily  down  the  slope  and  came 
to  a  standstill  against  the  wall  of  the  sty,  where  it 
lay  bedded. 

The  round  moon  had  risen  over  the  ravine, 
and  was  flooding  the  mound  with  light.  The 
Corporal  stared  at  Mercedes:  for  the  moment  he 
could  think  of  nothing  but  that  a  large,  loose 
stone  had  dropped  from  the  cliff".  He  ran  to  the 
thing  and  turned  it  over. 

It  was  a  knapsack. 

He  did  not  at  once  understand,  but  stepped 
back  a  few  paces  and  gazed  up  at  the  crags 
mounting  tier  by  tier  into  the  vague  moonlight. 
And  while  he  gazed  a  lighter  object  struck  the 
wall  over  head,  glanced  from  it,  went  spinning 
by  him,  and  disappeared  over  the  edge  of  the 
ravine.  As  it  passed  he  recognized  it  —  a  soldier's 
shako. 

Then  he  understood.  Someone  had  found  the 
spot  on  the  road  above  where  the  treasure  had 
been  upset,  and  these  things  were  being  dropped 
to  guide  his  search.  The  Corporal  ran  to  Mer- 
cedes and  would  have  clutched  her  by  the  wrist. 
The  knife  flashed  in  her  hand  as  she  evaded  him. 

"Quick,  my  girl  —  back  with  you,  quick! 
They're  after  the  money,  I  tell  you!" 

He  caught  up  the  knapsack.     They  ran  back 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

together  and  flung  themselves  into  the  cabin. 
The  Corporal  bolted  the  door. 

"King's  Own,"  he  announced,  having  dragged 
the  knapsack  to  the  firelight.  "If  there's  only 
one,  we'll  do  for  him." 

He  stepped  to  the  window-hole,  pulled  open 
the  shutter,  laid  the  two  guns  on  the  ledge,  and 
waited,  straining  his  ears. 

"Got  such  a  thing  as  a  shovel  or  a  mattock  ?" 
he  asked  after  a  while.  "I  reckon  you  could 
make  shift  to  cover  up  the  dollars:  there's  a  deal 
of  loose  earth  come  down  with  them." 

It  took  her  some  time  to  guess  what  he  wanted, 
for  he  spoke  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  He  listened 
again  for  a  while,  then  pointed  to  the  treasure. 

"Cover  it  up.  If  there's  more  than  one,  we'll 
have  trouble." 

She  produced  a  mattock  from  a  corner  of  the 
cabin  and  began,  through  the  broken  wall,  to 
rake  down  mud  and  earth  and  cover  the  coins. 
For  an  hour  and  more  she  worked,  the  Corporal 
still  keeping  watch.  Once  or  twice  he  growled 
at  her  to  make  less  noise. 

He  did  not  stand  the  suspense  well,  but  after 
the  first  hour  grew  visibly  uneasy. 

"I've  a  mind  to  give  this  over,"  he  grumbled, 
and  fell  to  unstrapping  his  knapsack.  "Here!" 

[284] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

—  he  tossed  it  to  her  —  "  pack  it,  full  as  you  can. 
Half  a  loaf  may  turn  out  better  than  no  bread." 

She  laid  the  knapsack  open  on  the  floor  and  set 
to  work,  cramming  it  with  dollars. 

"Talking  of  bread,'*  he  went  on  by-and-by, 
"that's  going  to  be  a  question.  My  stomach's 
feeling  at  this  moment  like  as  if  it  had  two  rows 
of  teeth  inside." 

"Hist!"  Mercedes  rose,  finger  to  lip.  He 
turned  again  to  the  window-hole  and  peered  out, 
gun  in  hand,  his  shoulder  blocking  the  recess. 

A  man's  footsteps  were  coming  up  the  path  — 
coming  cautiously.  Their  crunch  upon  the  snow 
was  just  audible,  and  no  more.  Mercedes  stole 
towards  the  window  and  crept  close  behind  the 
Corporal's  back;  stood  there,  holding  her  breath. 

The  man  on  the  path  halted  for  a  moment,  and 
came  on  again,  still  cautiously.  .  .  .  There  was 
a  jet  of  flame,  a  roar;  and  the  Corporal,  after  the 
kick  of  his  musket,  strained  himself  forward  on 
the  window-ledge  to  see  if  his  shot  had  told. 

"Settled  him!"  he  announced,  drawing  back 
and  turning  to  face  her  with  a  triumphant  grin. 

But  Mercedes  confronted  him  with  her  father's 
fowling-piece  in  hand.  She  had  slipped  it  off 
the  window-ledge  from  under  his  elbow  as  he 
leaned  forward. 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

"Unbar  the  door!"  she  commanded. 

"Look  here,  no  nonsense!" 

"Unbar  the  door!"  She  believed  him  to  be  a 
coward,  and  he  was. 

"You  just  wait  a  bit,  my  lady!"  he  threatened, 
but  drew  the  bolt,  nevertheless;  when  he  turned, 
the  muzzle  of  the  fowling-piece  still  covered  him. 

She  nodded  toward  the  knapsack.  "Pick  up 
that,  if  you  will.  .  .  .  Now  turn  your  back  — 
your  back  to  me,  if  you  please  —  and  go." 

He  hesitated,  rebellious:  but  there  was  no  help 
for  it. 

"Go!"  she  repeated.     And  he  went. 

Above  the  cabin  the  path  ended  almost  at  once 
in  a  c ul  de  sac  —  a  wall  of  frowning  cliff.  There 
was  no  way  for  him,  whether  he  wished  to  descend 
or  climb  the  mountain,  but  that  which  led  him 
past  the  body  of  the  man  he  had  just  murdered. 
He  went  past  it  tottering,  fumbling  with  the 
straps  of  his  knapsack:  and  Mercedes  stood  in  the 
moonlit  doorway  and  watched  him  out  of  sight. 

By-and-by  she  seated  herself  before  the  thresh- 
old, and,  laying  the  gun  across  her  knees,  pre- 
pared herself  to  wait  for  the  dawn.  The  dead 
man  lay  huddled  on  his  side,  a  few  paces  from 
her.  Overhead,  along  the  waste  mountain  heights, 
the  wolves  howled. 

[286] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

Hours  passed.  Still  the  wolves  howled,  and 
once  from  the  upper  darkness  Mercedes  heard,  or 
fancied  that  she  heard,  a  scream. 

At  noon,  next  day,  two  men  —  a  priest  and  a 
young  peasant  —  were  climbing  the  mountain- 
path  leading  to  the  hut.  The  young  man  carried 
on  his  shoulder  a  two-year-old  child;  and,  because 
the  sun  shone  and  the  crisp  air  put  a  spirit  of  life 
into  all  things  untroubled  by  thought,  the  child 
crowed  and  tugged  gleefully  at  his  father's  berret. 
But  his  father  paid  no  heed,  and  strode  forward 
at  a  pace  which  forced  the  priest  (who  was  stout) 
now  and  again  into  a  run. 

"She  will  not  be  there,"  he  kept  repeating, 
steeling  himself  against  the  worst.  "She  cannot 
be  there.  When  she  missed  her  child " 

"She  is  waiting  on  her  grandfather,  belike," 
urged  the  priest.  "They  left  him  with  one  day's 
food:  so  she  told  the  Brothers.  And  they,  like 
fools,  let  her  go  with  just  sufficient  for  her  own 
needs.  Yet  I  ought  not  to  blame  them  for  losing 
their  heads  in  so  small  a  matter.  They  saved 
many  women." 

He  told  again  how  he  —  the  parish  priest  of 
Nogales  —  had  found  Gil  the  Younger  and  his 
wife  dead  and  drunken,  with  their  heads  in  a 
[287] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

gutter  and  the  child  wailing  in  the  mud  beside 
them.  "Your  wife  had  given  her  mother  the 
child  to  guard  but  a  minute  before  she  fell  in 
with  the  soldiers.  A  young  officer  saved  her, 
the  Brothers  said." 

"Mercedes  will  have  sought  her  child  first," 
persisted  Sebastian;  and  rounding  the  corner  of 
the  cliff,  they  came  in  sight  of  the  hut  and  of  her 
whom  they  sought. 

She  sat  in  the  path  before  it,  still  with  the 
fowling-piece  across  her  knees.  But  to  reach  her 
they  had  to  pass  the  body  of  a  soldier  lying  with 
clenched  hands  in  a  crimson  patch  of  snow.  The 
child,  who  had  passed  by  many  horrors  on  the 
road,  and  all  with  gay  unconcern,  stretched  out 
his  arms  across  this  one,  recognising  his  mother 
at  once,  and  kicking  in  his  father's  clasp. 

She  raised  her  eyes  dully.  She  was  too  weak 
even  to  move.  "I  knew  you  would  come,"  she 
said  in  a  whisper;  and  with  that  her  eyes  shifted 
and  settled  on  the  body  in  the  path. 

"Take  him  away!     I  —  I  did  not  kill  him." 

Her  husband  set  down  the  child.  "Run  in- 
doors, little  one:  you  shall  kiss  mamma  presently." 

He  bent  over  her,  and,  unstringing  a  small 
wine-skin  from  his  belt,  held  the  mouth  of  it  to 
her  lips.  The  priest  stooped  over  the  dead  man, 

[288] 


RAIN  OF  DOLLARS 

on  whose  collar  the  figures  "28"  twinkled  in  the 
sunlight.  The  child,  for  a  moment  rebellious, 
toddled  towards  the  doorway  of  the  hut. 

Mercedes'  eyelids  had  closed:  but  some  of  the 
wine  found  its  way  down  her  throat,  and  as  it 
revived  her,  they  flickered  again. 

"Sebastian,"  she  whispered. 

"  Be  at  rest,  dear  wife.     It  is  I,  Sebastian." 

"I  did  not  kill  him." 

"I  hear.    You  did  not  kill  him." 

"The  child?" 

"  He  is  safe  —  safe  and  sound,"  he  assured 
her,  and  called,  "Sebastianillo!" 

For  a  moment  there  was  no  answer:  but  as  he 
lifted  Mercedes  and  carried  her  into  the  hut,  on 
its  threshold  the  boy  met  them,  his  both  hands 
dropping  silver  dollars. 


[289] 


THE   LAMP  AND  THE 
GUITAR 

[FROM  THE  MEMOIRS  OF  MANUEL,  OR  MANUS,  MAcNEILL, 
AN  AGENT  IN  THE  SECRET  SERVICE  OF  GREAT  BRIT- 
AIN DURING  THE  PENINSULAR  CAMPAIGNS  OF  1808-13.] 

I  HAVE  not  the  precise  date  in  1811  when 
Fuentes  and  I  set  out  for  Salamanca,  but  it  must 
have  been  either  in  the  third  or  fourth  week  of 
July. 

In  Portugal  just  then  Lord  Wellington  was 
fencing,  so  to  speak,  with  the  points  of  three 
French  armies  at  once.  On  the  south  he  had 
Souk,  on  the  north  Dorsenne,  and  between  them 
Marmont's  troops  were  scattered  along  the  valley 
of  the  Tagus,  with  Madrid  as  their  far  base. 
Being  solidly  concentrated,  by  short  and  rapid 
movements  he  could  keep  these  three  armies 
impotent  for  offence;  but  en  revanche,  he  could 
make  no  overmastering  attack  upon  any  one  of 
them.  If  he  advanced  far  against  Soult  or  against 
Dorsenne  he  must  bring  Marmont  down  on  his 
flank,  left  or  right;  while,  if  he  reached  out  and 
[291] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

struck  for  the  Tagus  Valley,  Marmont  could 
borrow  from  right  and  left  without  absolutely 
crippling  his  colleagues,  and  roll  up  seventy 
thousand  men  to  bar  the  road  on  Madrid.  In 
short,  the  opposing  armies  stood  at  a  deadlock, 
and  there  were  rumours  that  Napoleon,  who  was 
pouring  troops  into  Spain  from  the  north,  meant 
to  follow  and  take  the  war  into  his  own  hands. 

Now,  the  strength  and  the  weakness  of  the 
whole  position  lay  with  Marmont;  while  the  key 
of  it,  curiously  enough,  was  Ciudad  Rodrigo, 
garrisoned  by  Dorsenne  —  as  in  due  time  ap- 
peared. For  the  present,  Wellington,  groping 
for  the  vital  spot,  was  learning  all  that  could  be 
learnt  about  Marmont's  strength,  its  disposition, 
and  (a  matter  of  first  importance)  its  victualling, 
Spain  being  a  country  where  large  armies  starve. 
How  many  men  were  being  drafted  down  from 
the  north  ?  How  was  Marmont  scattering  his 
cantonments  to  feed  them  ?  What  was  the  state 
of  the  harvest  ?  What  provisions  did  Salamanca 
contain  ?  And  what  stores  were  accumulating 
at  Madrid,  Valladolid,  Burgos  ? 

I  had  just  arrived  at  Lisbon  in  a  chassemaree 
of  San  Sebastian,  bringing  a  report  of  the  French 
troops,  which  for  a  month  past  had  been  pour- 
ing across  the  bridge  of  Irun:  and  how  I  had 
[292] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

learnt  this  is  worth  telling.  There  was  a  cobbler, 
Martinez  by  name  —  a  little  man  with  a  green 
shade  over  his  eyes  —  who  plied  his  trade  in  a 
wooden  hutch  at  the  end  of  the  famous  bridge. 
While  he  worked  he  counted  every  man,  horse, 
standard,  wagon,  or  gun  that  passed,  and  for- 
warded the  numbers  without  help  of  speech  or 
writing  (for  he  could  not  even  write  his  own 
name).  He  managed  it  all  with  his  hammer, 
tapping  out  a  code  known  to  our  fellows  who 
roamed  the  shore  below  on  the  pretence  of  hunt- 
ing for  shellfish,  but  were  prevented  by  the 
French  cordon  from  getting  within  sight  of  the 
bridge.  As  for  Martinez,  the  French  Generals 
themselves  gossipped  around  his  hutch  while  he 
cobbled  industriously  at  the  soldiers'  shoes. 

I  had  presented  my  report  to  Lord  Wellington, 
who  happened  to  be  in  Lisbon  quarrelling  with 
the  Portuguese  Government  and  re-embarking 
(apparently  for  Cadiz)  a  battering  train  of  guns 
and  mortars  which  had  just  arrived  from  England: 
and  after  two  days'  holiday  I  was  spending  an 
idle  morning  in  a  wine-shop  by  the  quay,  where 
the  proprietor,  a  fervid  politician,  kept  on  file 
his  copies  of  the  Government  newspaper,  the 
Lisbon  Gazette.  A  week  at  sea  had  sharpened 
my  appetite  for  news;  and  I  was  wrapped  in 
[293] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

study  of  the  Gazette  when  an  orderly  arrived 
from  headquarters  with  word  that  Lord  Welling- 
ton requested  my  attendance  there  at  once. 

I  found  him  in  conference  with  a  handsome, 
slightly  built  man  —  a  Spaniard  by  his  face  — 
who  stepped  back  as  I  entered,  but  without  offer- 
ing to  retire.  Instead,  he  took  up  his  stand  with 
his  back  to  one  of  the  three  windows  overlook- 
ing the  street,  and  so  continued  to  observe  me, 
all  the  while  keeping  his  own  face  in  shade. 

The  General,  as  his  habit  was,  came  to  busi- 
ness at  once. 

"I  have  sent  for  you,'*  said  he,  "on  a  serious 
affair.  Our  correspondents  in  Salamanca  have 
suddenly  ceased  to  write." 

"If  your  Excellency's  correspondents  are  the 
same  as  the  Government's,"  said  I,  "'tis  small 
wonder,"  and  I  glanced  at  the  newspaper  in  his 
hand  —  a  copy  of  the  same  Gazette  I  had  been 
reading. 

"Then  you  also  think  this  is  the  explanation  ?" 
He  held  out  the  paper  with  the  face  of  a  man 
handling  vermin. 

"The  Government  publishes  its  reports,  the  Eng- 
lish newspapers  copy  them:  these  in  turn  reach 
Paris;  the  Emperor  reads  them:  and,"  concluded 
I,  with  a  shrug,  "your  correspondents  cease  to 
[294] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

write,  probably  for  the  good  reason  that  they  are 
dead." 

"That  is  just  what  I  want  you  to  find  out," 
said  he. 

"Your  Excellency  wishes  me  to  go  to  Sala- 
manca ?  Very  good.  And,  supposing  these  cor- 
respondents to  be  dead  ?" 

"You  will  find  others." 

"That  may  not  be  easy:  nevertheless,  I  can 
try.  Your  Excellency,  by  the  way,  will  allow 
me  to  promise  that  future  reports  are  not  for 
publication  ?" 

Wellington  smiled  grimly,  doubtless  from  recol- 
lection of  a  recent  interview  with  Silveira  and 
the  Portuguese  Ministry.  "You  may  rest  as- 
sured of  that,"  said  he;  and  added:  "There 
may  be  some  delay,  as  you  suggest,  in  finding 
fresh  correspondents:  and  it  is  very  necessary 
for  me  to  know  quickly  how  Salamanca  stands 
for  stores." 

"Then  I  must  pick  up  some  information  on 
my  own  account." 

"The  service  will  be  hazardous ' 

"  Oh,  as  for  that '  I  put  in,  with  another 

shrug. 

' — and  I  propose  to  give  you  a  companion," 
pursued  Wellington,  with  a  half-turn  toward  the 

[295] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

man  in  the  recess  of  the  window.  "  This  is  Senor 
Fuentes.  You  are  not  acquainted,  I  believe  ? 
—  as  you  ought  to  be." 

Now  from  choice  I  have  always  worked  alone: 
and  had  the  General  uttered  any  other  name  I 
should  have  been  minded  to  protest,  with  the 
old  Greek,  that  two  were  not  enough  for  an 
army,  while  for  any  other  purpose  they  were  too 
many.  But  on  hearsay  the  performances  of  this 
man  Fuentes  and  his  methods  and  his  character 
had  for  months  possessed  a  singular  fascination 
for  me.  He  was  at  once  a  strolling  guitar-player 
and  a  licentiate  of  the  University  of  Salamanca, 
a  consorter  with  gypsies,  and  by  birth  a  pure- 
blooded  Castilian  hidalgo.  Some  said  that  patriot- 
ism was  a  passion  with  him;  with  a  face  made 
for  the  love  of  women,  he  had  a  heart  only  for 
the  woes  of  Spain.  Others  averred  that  hatred 
of  the  French  was  always  his  master  impulse; 
that  they,  by  demolishing  the  colleges  of  his 
University,  and  in  particular  his  own  beloved 
College  of  San  Lorenzo,  had  broken  his  heart 
and  first  driven  him  to  wander.  Rewards  he  dis- 
dained; dangers  he  laughed  at:  his  feats  in  the 
service  had  sometimes  a  touch  of  high  comedy 
and  always  a  touch  of  heroic  grace.  In  short,  I 
believe  that  if  Spain  had  held  a  poet  in  those 

[296] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

days,  Fuentes  would  have  passed  into  song  and 
lived  as  one  of  his  country's  demigods. 

He  came  forward  now  with  a  winning  smile 
and  saluted  me  cordially,  not  omitting  a  hand- 
some compliment  on  my  work.  You  could  see 
that  the  man  had  not  an  ounce  of  meanness  in 
his  nature. 

"We  shall  be  friends,"  said  he,  turning  to  the 
Commander-in-Chief.  "And  that  will  be  to  the 
credit  of  both,  since  Senor  MacNeill  has  an  objec- 
tion to  comrades." 

"I   never  said  so." 

"  Excuse  me,  but  I  have  studied  your  methods." 

"Well,  then,"  I  replied,  "I  had  the  strongest 
objection,  but  you  have  made  me  forget  it  —  as 
you  have  forgotten  your  repugnance  to  visit 
Salamanca."  For  although  Fuentes  flitted  up 
and  down  and  across  Spain  like  a  will-o'-the- 
wisp,  I  had  heard  that  he  ever  avoided  the  city 
where  he  had  lived  and  studied. 

His  fine  eyes  clouded,  and  he  muttered  some 
Latin  words  as  it  were  with  a  voice  indrawn. 

"I  beg  your  pardon?"  put  in  Wellington 
sharply. 

"Cecidit,  cecidit  Salmantica  ilia  fortis,"  Fuentes 
repeated. 

"Cecidit'  —  ah!  I    see  —  a    quotation.     Yes, 

[297] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

they  are  knocking  the  place  about:  as  many  as 
fifteen  or  sixteen  colleges  razed  to  the  ground." 
He  opened  the  newspaper  again  and  ran  his  eyes 
down  the  report.  "You'll  excuse  me:  in  England 
we  have  our  own  way  of  pronouncing  Latin,  and 
for  the  moment  I  didn't  quite  catch Yes,  six- 
teen colleges;  a  clean  sweep!  But  before  long, 
Senor  Fuentes,  we'll  return  the  compliment  upon 
their  fortifications." 

"That  must  be  my  consolation,  your  Excel- 
lency," Fuentes  made  answer  with  a  smile  which 
scarcely  hid  its  irony. 

The  General  began  to  discuss  our  route:  our 
precautions  he  left  to  us.  He  was  well  aware  of 
the  extreme  risk  we  ran,  and  once  again  made 
allusion  to  it  as  he  dismissed  us. 

"  If  that  were  all  your  Excellency  demanded ! " 

Fuentes'  gaiety  returned  as  we  found  ourselves 
in  the  street.  "We  shall  get  on  together  like  a 
pair  of  schoolboys,"  he  assured  me.  "We  under- 
stand each  other,  you  and  I.  But  oh,  those 
islanders!" 

We  left  Lisbon  that  same  evening  on  muleback, 
taking  the  road  for  Abrantes.  So  universally 
were  the  French  hated  that  the  odds  were  we 
might  have  dispensed  with  precautions  at  this 

[298] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

stage,  and  indeed  for  the  greater  part  of  the 
journey.  The  frontier  once  passed  we  should 
be  travelling  in  our  native  country  —  Fuentes  as 
a  gypsy  and  I  as  an  Asturian,  moving  from  one 
harvest-job  to  another.  We  carried  no  com- 
promising papers:  and  if  the  French  wanted  to 
arrest  folks  on  mere  suspicion  they  had  the  entire 
population  to  practise  on.  Nevertheless,  having 
ridden  north-east  for  some  leagues  beyond  Abran- 
tes  —  on  the  direct  road  leading  past  Ciudad 
Rodrigo  to  Salamanca  —  we  halted  at  Amendoa, 
bartered  one  of  our  mules  for  a  couple  of  skins 
of  wine  and  ten  days'  provisions,  and,  having 
made  our  new  toilet  in  a  chestnut  grove  outside 
the  town,  headed  back  for  the  road  leading  east 
through  Villa  Velha  into  the  Tagus  valley. 

Beyond  the  frontier  we  were  among  Marmont's 
cantonments:  but  these  lay  scattered,  and  we 
avoided  them  easily.  Keeping  to  the  hill-tracks 
on  the  northern  bank  of  the  river,  and  giving  a 
wide  berth  to  the  French  posts  in  front  of  Alcan- 
tara, we  struck  away  boldly  for  the  north  through 
the  Sierras:  reached  the  Alagon,  and,  following 
up  its  gorges,  crossed  the  mountains  in  the  rear 
of  Bejar,  where  a  French  force  guarded  the 
military  pass. 

So  far  we  had  travelled   unmolested,   if  toil- 

[299] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

somely;  and  a  pleasanter  comrade  than  Fuentes 
no  man  could  ask  for.  His  gaiety  never  failed 
him :  yet  it  was  ever  gentle,  and  I  suspected  that  it 
covered  either  a  native  melancholy  or  some  settled 
sorrow  —  sorrow  for  his  country,  belike  —  but 
there  were  depths  he  never  allowed  me  to  sound. 
He  did  everything  well,  from  singing  a  love-song 
to  tickling  a  trout  and  cooking  it  for  our  supper: 
and  it  was  after  such  a  supper,  as  we  lay  and 
smoked  on  a  heathery  slope  beyond  Bejar,  that 
he  unfolded  his  further  plans. 

"My  friend,"  said  he,  "there  were  once  two 
brothers,  students  of  Salamanca,  and  not  far  re- 
moved in  age.  Of  these  the  elder  was  given  to 
love-making  and  playing  on  the  guitar;  while  the 
other  stuck  to  his  books  —  which  was  all  the 
more  creditable  because  his  eyes  were  weak.  I 
hope  you  are  enjoying  this  story  ?" 

"It  begins  to  be  interesting." 

"  Yet  these  two  brothers  —  they  were  nearly 
of  one  height,  by  the  way  —  obtained  their 
bachelor's  degrees,  and  in  time  their  licentiates, 
though  as  rewards  for  different  degrees  of  learn- 
ing. They  were  from  Villacastin,  beyond  Avila 
in  Old  Castille:  but  their  father,  a  hidalgo  of 
small  estates  there,  possessed  also  a  farm  and 
the  remains  of  a  castle  across  the  frontier  in  the 
[3°°] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

kingdom  of  Leon,  a  league  to  the  west  of  Sal- 
vatierra  on  the  Tormes.  It  had  come  to  him  as 
security  for  a  loan  which  was  never  paid:  and, 
dying,  he  left  this  property  to  his  younger  son 
Andrea.  Now  when  the  French  set  a  Corsican 
upon  the  throne  of  our  kingdoms,  these  two 
brothers  withdrew  from  Salamanca;  but  while 
Andrea  took  up  his  abode  on  his  small  heritage, 
and  gave  security  for  his  good  behaviour,  Eugenio, 
the  elder,  turned  his  back  on  the  paternal  home 
(which  the  French  had  ravaged),  and  became 
a  rebel,  a  nameless,  landless  man  and  a  wan- 
derer, with  his  guitar  for  company.  You  follow 
me?" 

"  I  follow  you,  Senor  Don  Eugenio 

"Not  *de  Fuentes/"  he  put  in  with  a  smile. 
"The  real  name  you  shall  read  upon  certain 
papers  and  parchments  of  which  I  hope  to  possess 
myself  to-night.  In  short,  my  friend,  since  we 
are  on  the  way  to  Salamanca,  why  should  I  not 
apply  there  for  my  doctor's  degree?" 

"It  requires  a  thesis,  I  have  always  understood." 

"That  is  written." 

"May  I  ask  upon  what  subject?" 

"The  fiend  take  me  if  I  know  yet!  But  it  is 
written,  safe  enough." 

"Ah,  I  see!     We  go  to  Salvatierra  ?    Yes,  yes, 

[301] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

but  what  of  me,  who  know  scarcely  any  Latin 
beyond  my  credo?" 

"Why,  that  is  where  I  feel  a  certain  delicacy. 
Having  respect  to  your  rank,  caballero,  I  do  not 
like  to  propose  that  you  should  become  my  ser- 
vant." 

"I  am  your  servant  already,  and  for  a  week 
past  I  have  been  an  Asturian.  It  will  be  pro- 
motion." 

He  sprang  up  gaily.  "What  a  comrade  is 
mine!"  he  cried,  flinging  away  the  end  of  his 
cigarette.  "To  Salvatierra,  then  —  Santiago,  and 
close  Spain!" 

Darkness  overtook  us  as  we  climbed  down  the 
slopes:  but  we  pushed  on,  Fuentes  leading  the 
way  boldly.  Evidently  he  had  come  to  familiar 
ground.  But  it  was  midnight  before  he  brought 
me,  by  an  abominable  road,  to  a  farmstead  the 
walls  of  which  showed  themselves  ruinous  even 
in  the  starlight  —  for  moon  there  was  none. 
At  an  angle  of  the  building,  which  once  upon  a 
time  had  been  whitewashed,  rose  a  solid  tower, 
with  a  doorway  and  an  iron-studded  door,  and  a 
narrow  window  overlooking  it.  In  spite  of  the 
hour,  Fuentes  advanced  nonchalantly  and  began 
to  bang  the  door,  making  noise  enough  to  wake 
the  dead.  The  window  above  was  presently 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

opened  —  one  could  hear,  with  a  shaking  hand. 
"Who  is  there?"  asked  a  man's  voice  no  less 
tremulous.  "Who  are  you,  for  the  love  of  God  ?" 

"Gente  de  paz,  my  dear  brother!  —  not  your 
friends  the  French.  I  hope,  by  the  way,  you  are 
entertaining  none." 

"I  have  been  in  bed  these  four  hours  or  five. 
*  Peace,'  say  you  ?  I  wish  you  would  take  your 
own  risks  and  leave  me  in  peace!  What  is  it  you 
want,  this  time  ? " 

"'Tis  a  good  six  weeks,  brother,  since  my  last 
visit:  and,  as  you  know,  I  never  call  without 
need." 

"Well,  what  is  it  you  need  ?" 

"I  need,"  said  Fuentes  with  great  gravity, 
"the  loan  of  your  spectacles." 

"Be  serious,  for  God's  sake!  And  do  not 
raise  your  voice  so:  the  French  may  be  following 
you- 

"Dear  Andrea,  and  if  the  French  were  to  hear 
it,  surely  mine  is  an  innocent  request.  A  pair 
of  spectacles!" 

"The  French-  '  began  Don  Andrea  and 
broke  off,  peering  down  short-sightedly  into  the 
courtyard.  "Ah,  there  is  someone  else!  Who 
is  it  ?  Who  is  it  you  have  there  in  the  darkness  ?" 

"Dios!  A  moment  since  you  were  begging 
[303] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

for  silence,  and  now  you  want  me  to  call  out  my 
friend's  name  —  to  who  knows  what  ears  ?  He 
has  a  mule,  here,  and  I  —  oh  yes,  beside  the  spec- 
tacles I  shall  require  a  horse:  a  horse,  and  —  let 
me  see  —  a  treatise." 

"Have  you  been  drinking,  brother?" 

"No:  and,  since  you  mention  it,  a  cup  of  wine, 
too,  would  not  come  amiss.  Is  this  a  way  to 
treat  the  caballero  my  friend  ?  For  the  honour  of 
the  family,  brother,  step  down  and  open  the  door." 

Don  Andrea  closed  the  window,  and  by-and-by 
we  heard  the  bolts  withdrawn,  one  by  one  —  and 
they  were  heavy.  The  door  opened  at  length, 
and  a  thin  man  in  a  nightcap  peered  out  upon 
us  with  an  oil-lamp  held  aloft  over  the  hand  shad- 
ing his  eyes. 

"You  had  best  call  Juan,"  said  his  brother 
easily,  "and  bid  him  stable  the  mule.  For  the 
remainder  of  the  night  we  are  your  guests;  and, 
to  ensure  our  sleeping  well,  you  shall  fetch  out 
the  choicest  of  the  theses  you  have  composed  for 
your  doctorate  and  read  us  a  portion  over  our 
wine." 

We  lay  that  night,  after  a  repast  of  thin  wine 

and  chestnuts,  in  a  spare  chamber,  and  on  beds 

across  the  feet  of  which  the  rats  scudded.     I  did 

not  see  Don  Andrea  again:  but  his  brother,  who 

[3°4] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

had  risen  betimes,  awakened  me  from  uneasy 
slumber  and  showed  me  his  spoil.  Sure  enough 
it  included  a  pair  of  spectacles  and  a  bulky  roll 
of  manuscript,  a  leathern  jerkin,  a  white  shirt, 
and  a  pair  of  velvet-fustian  breeches,  tawny  yellow 
in  hue  and  something  the  worse  for  wear.  Below- 
stairs,  in  the  courtyard,  we  found  a  white-haired 
retainer  waiting,  with  his  grip  on  the  bridles  of 
my  mule  and  a  raw-boned  grey  mare. 

"The  caballero  will  bring  them  back  when  he 
has  done  with  them?"  said  this  old  man  as  I 
mounted.  The  request  puzzled  me  for  a  moment 
until  I  met  his  eyes  and  found  them  fastened 
wistfully  on  my  breeches. 

Assuredly  Fuentes  was  an  artist.  Besides  the 
spectacles,  which  in  themselves  transformed  him, 
he  had  borrowed  a  broad-brimmed  hat  and  a 
rusty  black  sleeveless  mancha,  which,  by  the  way 
he  contrived  it  to  hang,  gave  his  frame  an  ex- 
traordinary lankiness.  But  his  final  and  really 
triumphant  touch  was  simply  a  lengthening  of  the 
stirrups,  so  that  his  legs  dangled  beneath  the 
mare's  belly  like  a  couple  of  ropes  with  shoes 
attached.  If  Don  Andrea  watched  us  out  of  sight 
from  his  tower  —  as  I  doubt  not  he  did  —  his 
emotions  as  he  recognised  his  portrait  must  have 
been  lively. 

[305] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

In  this  guise  we  ambled  steadily  all  day  along 
the  old  Roman  road  leading  to  Salamanca,  and 
came  within  sight  of  the  city  as  the  sun  was  sink- 
ing. It  stood  on  the  eastern  bank  of  the  river, 
fronting  the  level  rays,  its  walls  rising  tier  upon 
tier,  its  towers  and  cupolas  of  cream-coloured 
stone  bathed  in  gold,  with  recesses  of  shadowy 
purple.  A  bridge  of  twenty-five  or  six  arches 
spanned  the  cool  river-beds,  and  towards  this  we 
descended  between  cornfields,  of  which  the  light 
swept  the  topmost  ears  while  the  stalks  stood 
already  in  twilight.  Truly  it  was  a  noble  city 
yet,  and  so  I  cried  aloud  to  Fuentes.  But  his 
eyes,  I  believe,  saw  only  what  the  French  had 
marred  or  demolished. 

A  group  of  their  soldiery  idled  by  the  bridge- 
end,  waiting  for  the  guard  to  be  relieved,  and 
lolled  against  the  parapet  watching  the  bathers, 
whose  shouts  came  up  to  me  from  the  chasm 
below.  But  instead  of  riding  up  and  presenting 
our  passes,  Fuentes,  a  furlong  from  the  bridge, 
turned  his  mare's  head  to  the  left  and  reined  up 
at  the  door  of  a  small  riverside  tavern. 

The  innkeeper  —  a  brisk,  athletic  man,  with 
the  air  of  a  retired  servant  —  appeared  at  the 
door  as  we  dismounted.  He  scanned  Fuentes 
narrowly,  while  giving  him  affable  welcome. 

[306] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

Plainly  he  recognised  him  as  an  old  patron,  yet 
plainly  the  recognition  was  imperfect. 

"Eh,  my  good  Bartolome,  and  so  you  still  cling 
above  the  river  ?  I  hope  custom  clings  here  too  ?" 

"  But  —  but  can  it  be  the  Senor  Don " 

"Eugenio,  my  friend.  The  spectacles  puzzle 
you:  they  belong  to  my  brother,  Don  Andrea,  and 
I  may  tell  you  that  after  a  day's  wear  I  find  them 
trying  to  the  eyes.  But,  you  understand,  there 
are  reasons  .  .  .  and  so  you  will  suppose  me  to 
be  Don  Andrea,  while  bringing  a  cup  of  wine, 
and  another  for  my  servant,  to  Don  Eugenie's 
favourite  seat,  which  was  at  the  end  of  the  garden 
beyond  the  mulberry-tree,  if  you  remember." 

"Assuredly  this  poor  house  is  your  Lordship's, 
and  all  that  belongs  to  it.  The  wine  shall  be 
fetched  with  speed.  But  as  for  the  table  at  the 
end  of  the  garden,  I  regret  to  tell  your  Lordship 
that  it  is  occupied  for  a  while.  If  for  this  evening, 
I  might  recommend  the  parlour "  The  inn- 
keeper made  his  excuse  with  a  certain  quick 
trepidation  which  Fuentes  did  not  fail  to  note. 

"What  is  this  ?  Your  garden  full  ?  It  appears 
then,  my  good  Bartolome,  that  your  custom  has 
not  suffered  in  these  bad  times." 

"  On  the  contrary,  Senor,  it  has  fallen  off  woe- 
fully! My  garden  has  been  deserted  for  months, 

[307] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

and  is  empty  now,  save  for  two  gentlemen,  who, 
as  luck  will  have  it,  have  chosen  to  seat  them- 
selves in  your  Lordship's  favourite  corner.  Ah, 
yes,  the  old  times  were  the  best!  and  I  was  a  fool 
to  grumble,  as  I  sometimes  did,  when  my  patrons 
ran  me  off  my  legs." 

"But  steady,  Bartolome:  not  so  fast!  Surely 
there  used  to  be  three  tables  beyond  the  mulberry- 
tree,  or  my  memory  is  sadly  at  fault." 

"Three  tables  ?  Yes,  it  is  true  there  are  three 
tables.  Nevertheless ' 

"I  cannot  see,"  pursued  Fuentes  with  a  musing 
air  —  "  no,  for  the  life  of  me  I  cannot  see  how 
two  gentlemen  should  require  three  tables  to 
drink  their  wine  at." 

"Nor  I,  Senor.  It  must,  as  you  say,  be  a 
caprice:  nevertheless  they  charged  me  that  on  all 
accounts  they  were  to  have  that  part  of  the  garden 
to  themselves." 

"A  very  churlish  caprice,  then!  They  are 
Frenchmen,  doubtless?" 

"No,  indeed,  your  Lordship:  but  two  lads  of 
good  birth,  gentlemen  of  Spain,  the  one  a  bachelor, 
the  other  a  student  of  the  University." 

"All  the  more,  then,  they  deserve  a  lesson.  Bar- 
tolome, you  will  tell  your  tapster  to  bring  my  wine 
to  the  vacant  table  beyond  the  mulberry-tree." 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

"  But,  Sefior  -  As  Fuentes  moved  off,  the 

inn-keeper  put  forth  a  hand  to  entreat  if  not  10 
restrain  him. 

"Eh?"  Fuentes  halted  as  if  amazed  at  his 
impudence.  "Ah,  to  be  sure,  I  am  Don  Andrea: 
but  do  not  forget,  my  friend,  that  Don  Eugenio 
used  to  be  quick-tempered,  and  that  in  members 
of  one  family  these  little  likenesses  crop  up  in 
the  most  unexpected  fashion."  He  strode  away 
down  the  shadowy  garden-path  over  which  in  the 
tree-tops  a  last  beam  or  two  of  sunset  lingered: 
and  I,  having  hitched  up  our  beasts,  followed  him, 
carrying  the  saddle-bags  and  his  guitar-case. 

Three  tables,  as  he  had  premised,  stood  in  the 
patch  of  garden  beyond  the  mulberry-tree,  hedged 
in  closely  on  three  sides,  giving  a  view  in  front 
upon  the  towers  and  fortifications  across  the 
river;  a  nook  secluded  as  a  stage-box  facing  a 
scene  that  might  have  been  built  and  lit  up  for 
our  delectation.  The  tables,  with  benches  along- 
side, stood  moderately  close  together  —  two  by 
the  river-wall,  the  third  in  the  rear,  where  the 
hedge  formed  an  angle:  and  the  two  gentlemen 
so  jealous  of  their  privacy  were  seated  at  the 
nearer  of  the  two  tables  overlooking  the  river, 
and  on  the  same  bench  —  though  at  the  extreme 
ends  of  it  and  something  more  than  a  yard  apart. 

[309] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

They  stared  up  angrily  at  our  intrusion,  and 
for  the  moment  the  elder  of  the  pair  seemed  about 
to  demand  our  business.  But  Fuentes  walked 
calmly  by,  took  his  seat  at  the  next  table,  pulled 
out  his  bundle  of  manuscript,  adjusted  his  spec- 
tacles, and  began  to  read.  Having  deposited 
my  baggage,  I  took  up  a  respectful  position  be- 
hind him,  ignoring  —  somewhat  ostentatiously 
perhaps  —  the  strangers'  presence,  yet  not  with- 
out observing  them  from  the  corner  of  my  eye. 

They  were  young:  the  elder,  maybe,  three-and- 
twenty,  short,  thick-set,  with  features  just  now 
darkened  by  his  ill-humour,  but  probably  sullen 
enough  at  the  best  of  times:  the  younger,  tall  and 
nervous  and  extraordinarily  fair  for  a  Spaniard, 
with  a  weak,  restless  mouth  and  restless,  passionate 
eyes.  Indeed,  either  this  restlessness  was  a 
disease  with  him  or  he  was  suffering  just  now 
from  an  uncontrollable  agitation.  Eyes,  mouth, 
feet,  fingers  —  the  whole  man  seemed  to  be 
twitching.  I  set  down  his  age  at  eighteen.  On 
the  table  stood  a  large  flask  of  wine,  from  which 
he  helped  himself  fiercely,  and  beside  the  flask 
lay  a  long  bundle  wrapped  in  a  cloak. 

This  young  man,  having  drained  his  glass  at  a 
gulp,  let  out  an  oath  and  sprang  up  suddenly 
with  a  glare  upon  Fuentes,  who  had  stretched 

[3I01 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

out  his  legs  and  was  already  absorbed  in  his 
reading. 

"Senor  Stranger,"  he  began  impetuously,  "we 
would  have  you  to  know,  if  the  innkeeper  has  not 
already  told  you 

"Gently!"  interposed  his  comrade.     "You  are 

going  the  wrong  way  to  work.     My  friend,  Sir" 

-  he  addressed  Fuentes,  who  looked  up  with  a 

mild  surprise  — "  my  friend,  Sir,  was  about  to 

suggest  that  the  light  is  poor  for  reading." 

"Oh,"  answered  Fuentes,  smiling  easily,  "for 
a  minute  or  two  —  until  they  bring  my  wine. 
Moreover,  I  wear  excellent  glasses." 

"  But  the  place  is  not  too  well  chosen." 

Fuentes  appeared  to  digest  this  for  a  moment, 
then  turned  around  upon  me  with  a  puzzled  air. 

"My  good  Pedro,  you  have  not  misled  me,  I 
hope  ?  I  am  short-sighted,  gentlemen;  and  if  we 
have  strayed  into  a  private  garden  I  offer  you  my 
profoundest  apologies."  He  gathered  his  manu- 
script into  a  roll  and  stood  up. 

:'To  be  plain  with  you,  Sir,"  said  the  dark 
man  sullenly,  "this  is  not  precisely  a  private 
garden,  and  yet  we  desire  privacy." 

"Oho  ?"  After  a  glance  around,  Fuentes  fixed 
his  eyes  on  the  bundle  lying  on  the  table.  "And 
at  the  point  of  the  sword  —  eh  ?" 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

The  two  young  men  started  and  at  once  began 
to  eye  each  other  suspiciously. 

"No,  no,'*  Fuentes  assured  them,  smiling; 
"this  is  no  trap,  believe  me,  but  a  chance  en- 
counter; and  I  am  no  alguacil  in  disguise,  but  a 
poor  scholar  returning  to  Salamanca  for  his 
doctorate.  Nor  do  I  seek  to  know  the  cause  of 
your  quarrel.  But  here  comes  the  wine!"  He 
waited  until  the  tapster  had  set  flask  and  glasses 
on  the  table  and  withdrawn.  "In  the  interval 
before  your  friends  arrive  you  will  not  grudge  me, 
Sirs,  the  draining  of  a  glass  to  remembrance  in  a 
garden  where  I  too  have  loved  my  friends,  and 
quarrelled  with  them,  in  days  gone  by  —  days 
older  now  than  I  care  to  reckon."  He  raised  the 
wine  and  held  it  up  for  a  moment  against  the  sun- 
set. "  Youth  —  youth ! "  he  sighed. 

"You  are  welcome,  Sir,"  said  the  younger  man 
a  trifle  more  graciously;  "  but  we  expect  no  seconds, 
and,  believe  me,  we  shall  presently  be  pressed  for 
time." 

Fuentes  raised  his  eyebrows.  "You  surprise 
and  shock  me,  Sirs.  In  the  days  to  which  I 
drank  just  now  it  was  not  customary  for  gentle- 
men of  the  University  of  Salamanca  to  fight 
without  witnesses.  We  left  that  to  porters  and 
grooms." 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

"And  pray,"  sneered  the  darker  young  man, 
"may  we  know  the  name  of  him  who  from  the 
height  of  his  years  and  experience  presumes  to 
intrude  this  lecture  on  us?" 

"You  may  address  me,  if  you  will,  as  Don 
Andrea  Galazza  de  Villacastin,  a  licentiate  of 
your  University " 

To  my  astonishment  the  younger  man  stopped 
him  with  a  short  offensive  laugh.  "You  may 
spare  us  the  rest,  Sir.  Don  Andrea  Galazza  is 
known  to  us  and  to  all  honest  patriots  by  repute: 
we  can  supply  the  rest  of  his  titles  for  ourselves, 
beginning  with  renegado " 

"Hist!"  interposed  his  comrade,  at  the  same 
time  catching  up  the  swords  from  the  table. 
"  Don't  be  a  fool,  Sebastian  —  speak  lower,  for 
God's  sake!  —  the  very  soldiers  at  the  bridge  will 
hear  you!" 

"Ay,  Sir,"  chimed  in  Fuentes  gravely;  "listen 
to  your  friend's  advice,  and  do  not  increase  the 
peril  of  your  remarks  by  the  foolishness  of  shout- 
ing them." 

But  the  youngster,  flushed  with  wine  and 
overstrung,  had  lost  for  the  moment  all  self-con- 
trol. "I  accept  that  risk,"  cried  he,  "for  the 
pleasure  of  telling  Don  Andrea  Galazza  what 
kind  of  man  he  passes  for  among  honourable 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

folk.  He,  the  brother  of  Don  Eugenio  —  of  our 
hero,  the  noble  Fuentes!  He,  that  signed  his 
peace  while  that  noble  heart  preferred  to  break! 
He  spat  in  furious  contempt. 

Fuentes  turned  to  me  quietly.  "Behold  one 
of  the  enthusiasts  we  came  to  seek,"  he  murmured; 
"and  one  who  will  not  fear  risks.  But  these 
testimonials  are  embarrassing,  and  this  fame 
of  mine  swells  to  a  nuisance."  He  faced  his 
accuser.  "Nevertheless,"  answered  he  aloud, 
"you  make  a  noise  that  must  disconcert  your 
friend,  who  is  in  two  minds  about  assassinating 
me.  Why  spoil  his  game  by  arousing  the  neigh- 
bourhood ?" 

"  Sefior  Don  Andrea,  you  know  too  much  - 
thanks  to  my  friend  here,"  said  the  dark  man 
slowly. 

"  But  we  are  not  assassins,"  put  in  the  youngster. 
"Renegade  though  you  be,  Don  Andrea,  I  give 
you  your  chance."  He  snatched  the  foil  from 
his  senior's  hand  and  presented  it  solemnly,  hilt 
foremost,  to  Fuentes. 

"Youth  —  youth!"  murmured  Fuentes  with  an 
appreciative  laugh,  as  he  tucked  the  foil  under  his 
arm,  took  off  his  spectacles  and  rubbed  them,  laugh- 
ing again.  He  readjusted  them  carefully  and,  sa- 
luting, fell  on  guard.  "  I  am  at  your  service,  Sir." 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

The  youth  stepped  forward  hotly,  touched 
blades,  and  almost  immediately  lunged.  An  in- 
stant later  his  sword,  as  though  it  had  been  a  bird 
released  from  his  hand,  flew  over  his  shoulder  into 
the  twilight  behind. 

"  That  was  ill-luck  for  you,  Senor,"  said  Fuentes 
lowering  his  point.  "But  who  can  be  sure  of 
himself  in  this  confounded  twilight  ?"  He  swung 
half-about  towards  the  river-wall,  with  a  glance 
across  at  the  city,  where  already  a  few  lights  be- 
gan to  twinkle  in  the  dusk.  And,  so  turning, 
he  seemed  on  a  sudden  to  catch  his  breath. 

And  almost  on  that  instant  the  youngster,  who 
had  fallen  back  disconcerted,  sprang  forward  in 
a  fresh  fury  and  gripped  his  comrade  by  the  arm, 
pointing  excitedly  towards  a  group  of  houses 
above  the  fortifications,  whence  from  a  high 
upper  storey,  deeply  recessed  between  flanking 
walls,  a  light  redder  than  the  rest  twinkled  across 
to  us. 

"The  proof!"  cried  he.  "She  knew  you  would 
be  here,  and  that  is  the  proof!  You  at  least  I 
will  kill  before  I  leave  this  garden,  as  I  came  to 
kill  you  to-night." 

In  his  new  gust  of  fury  he  seemed  to  have  for- 
gotten his  discomfiture  —  to  have  forgotten  even 
the  existence  of  Fuentes,  who  now  faced  them 

[315] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

both  with  a  smile  which  (unless  the  dusk  distorted 
it)  had  some  bitterness  in  its  raillery. 

"  If  I  mistake  not,  Sirs,  the  light  you  were  dis- 
cussing signals  to  us  from  an  upper  chamber  in 
the  Lesser  Street  of  the  Virgins.  It  can  only  be 
seen  from  this  garden  and  from  the  far  end  of  it, 
where  we  now  stand.  I  will  not  ask  you  who 
lights  it  now:  but  she  who  lit  it  in  former  days 
was  named  Luisa.  Oh  yes,  she  was  circumspect 
—  a  good  maid  then,  and  no  doubt  a  good  maid 
now:  in  that  street  of  the  Virgins  there  was  at 
least  one  prudent.  Youth  flies,  ay  de  mi!  But 
youth  also,  as  I  perceive  to-night,  repeats  itself; 
and  Luisa  —  who  was  always  circumspect,  though 
a  conspirator  —  apparently  repeats  herself  too." 

"Luisa  ?  What  do  you  know  of  Luisa  ?"  stam- 
mered the  younger  man.  The  name  seemed  to 
have  fallen  on  him  like  the  touch  of  an  enchanter's 
wand,  stiffening  him  to  stone.  Like  a  statue  he 
stood  there,  peering  forward  with  a  white  face. 

"My  friend"  -  Fuentes  turned  to  me  —  "be 
so  good  as  to  unstrap  the  case  yonder  and  hand 
me  my  guitar." 

He  laid  his  foil  on  the  table,  took  the  guitar 
from  me,  and,  having  seated  himself  on  the 
bench,  tried  the  strings  softly,  all  the  while  look- 
ing up  with  grave  raillery  at  the  two  young  men. 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

"What  do  I  know  of  Luisa  ?  Listen!"  Under 
his  voice  he  began  a  light-hearted  little  song, 
which  in  English  might  run  like  this,  or  as  nearly 
as  I  can  contrive  — 

My  love,  she  lives  in  Salamanca 

All  up  a  dozen  flights  of  stairs; 
There  with  the  sparrows  night  and  morning 

Under  the  roof  she  chirps  her  prayers. 
They  say  her  wisdom  comes  from  heaven  — 

So  near  the  clouds  and  chimneys  meet  — 
I  rather  think  Luisa's  sparrows 

Fetch  it  aloft  there  from  the  street! 

What  would  you  have?     In  la   Verdura 

All  the  day  long  she  keeps  a  stall: 
Students,  bachelors  buy  her  nosegays, 

Given  with  a  look  and  —  well,  that's  all! 
Go,  silly  boy,  believe  you  first  with  her  — 

Twenty  at  once  she'll  entertain. 
Why  love  a  mistress  and  be  curst  with  her? 

Copy  Luisa  —  love  all  Spain!" 

He  paused,  still  eyeing  them.  "You  recognise 
the  tune,  Sirs  ?  Does  she  play  it  yet  ?  Well,  then, 
I  made  it  for  her. 

"You?  How  came  you  to  make  her  that 
tune?"  The  younger  man  had  found  his  voice 
at  length.  "No,  Sir;  coquette  she  may  be,  but 
that  she  ever  was  friends  with  such  a  one  as 
Andrea  Galazza  I  will  not  yet  believe." 

[317] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

"And  you  are  right.  Sirs,  you  have  not  yet 
told  me  your  names:  but  in  your  generous  heat 
you  have  given  me  your  secret  —  that  you  are 
two  lovers  of  Spain,  and  even  such  a  pair  as  my 
friend  and  I  have  travelled  some  distance  to  seek. 
In  return  you  shall  have  mine.  I  tricked  you 
just  now.  I  am  not  Don  Andrea,  but  his  brother 
Eugenic  —  or,  as  some  call  him,  Fuentes." 

"Fuentes!     You!" 

"Upon  my  honour,  yes."  He  pulled  off  his 
spectacles,  meeting  their  incredulity  with  a  frank 
laugh.  "What  proof  can  I  give  you?"  The 
guitar  still  lay  across  his  knees:  he  picked  it  up 
as  if  to  play,  but  set  it  down  after  a  moment  with 
another  laugh,  hard  and  bitter.  "Let  us  go 
together,  gentlemen,  to  the  Street  of  the  Virgins, 
and  ask  Luisa  if  she  remembers  me." 

It  was  agreed  that  the  young  men  —  who  gave 
their  names  as  Diego  de  Ribalta  and  Sebastian 
Paz  —  should  not  accompany  us  into  the  city, 
but  wend  their  way  back  across  the  bridge,  while 
we  finished  our  wine  and  mounted  our  beasts  at 
leisure.  The  officer  at  the  bridge-end  made  no 
pother  about  our  passports  (borrowed,  I  need 
scarcely  say,  from  the  estimable  Don  Andrea, 
who,  as  his  brother  explained,  was  a  careful  man, 
and  zealous  in  all  dealings  with  the  authorities); 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

and  by-and-by  we  were  clattering  up-hill  through 
the  ill-lighted  streets  of  Salamanca.  At  the  head 
of  the  first  street  our  two  friends  stepped  out  of 
the  shadow  and  joined  us  in  silence.  In  silence, 
too,  Fuentes  regreeted  them,  and  led  the  way  — 
to  an  inn  first,  the  Four  Crowns,  standing  almost 
under  the  shadow  of  the  Old  Cathedral,  where 
we  stabled  mare  and  mule;  then,  on  foot,  through 
a  maze  of  zigzagging  lanes  and  alleys,  back  into 
the  depths  of  a  waterside  quarter.  Once  he  was 
at  fault  —  the  lane  we  followed  ending  abruptly 
in  an  open  space  strewn  with  rubble-heaps,  a 
broad  area  where  the  French  had  lately  been  at 
work.  Among  these  heaps  he  blundered  for  a 
while  in  the  darkness,  and  then,  retracing  his 
steps,  took  up  the  scent  again  and  led  us  down 
one  narrow  street,  across  another;  turned  to  the 
right,  counting  the  houses  as  he  went,  and  knocked 
at  the  twelfth  door  without  hesitation.  The 
knock  was  a  peculiar  one  —  five  quick  taps, 
followed,  after  a  pause,  by  one  distinct  and 
heavy. 

"But  I  must  ask  these  gentlemen  to  do  what 
remains,"  said  he,  turning  and  addressing  our 
companions.  "Luisa  has  doubtless  changed  the 
password  since  my  time." 

"Willingly,  Senor  Fuentes,"  agreed  de  Ribalta. 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

"You  will   not,   of  course,   object  to  be  blind- 
folded ?  —  a  formality,  merely,  in  your  case." 

The  porter,  having  received  the  password  in  a 
whisper  through  the  grille,  unbolted  to  us,  and 
opened  the  door  upon  a  pitch-dark  passage. 
Here  we  submitted  to  have  our  eyes  bandaged, 
and  Sebastian  Paz  took  my  hand  to  guide  me. 
Eight  flights  of  stairs  we  mounted  before  the 
hubbub  of  many  voices  and  the  tinkle  of  a  guitar 
saluted  my  ears;  two  more,  and  the  hubbub  grew 
louder;  another,  and  it  grew  obstreperous,  deafen- 
ing. At  the  head  of  the  twelfth  flight  one  of  our 
guides  rapped  on  a  door;  the  noise  died  down 
suddenly;  a  bolt  was  shot  back  and  the  bandage 
dragged  from  my  eyes. 

I  found  myself  blinking  and  staring  across  a 
room  filled  with  tobacco-smoke,  and  upon  a  com- 
pany which  at  first  glance  I  took  for  a  crew  of 
demons.  They  were,  in  fact,  a  students'  chorus 
-  young  men  in  black,  with  black  silk  masks 
covering  the  upper  half  of  their  faces.  All  wore 
the  same  uniform  —  black  tunic,  short  black 
cloak,  knee-breeches,  and  stockings.  Some  squat- 
ted on  the  floor,  two  lolled  on  a  divan  by  the 
window  —  each  with  a  guitar  across  his  knees. 
The  man  who  had  opened  to  us  held  a  tam- 
bourine, and  he  alone  wore  a  little  round  cap. 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

The  others  wore  black  cocked  hats,  or  had  flung 
them  off  for  better  ease.  In  a  deep  armchair 
beside  the  fireplace  sat  a  stiff-backed,  middle- 
aged  woman  in  black  —  a  duenna  evidently  — 
who  regarded  us  with  eyes  like  large  black  beads, 
but  did  not  interrupt  her  knitting.  In  the  corner 
behind  the  door  stood  a  bed,  with  a  crucifix  above 
it:  and  on  the  bed,  between  two  crates,  the  one 
of  them  heaped  with  flowers,  sat  a  young  woman 
dangling  a  pretty  pair  of  feet  and  smoking  a 
cigarette  while  she  made  up  a  posy. 

In  spite  of  their  masks  one  could  tell  that  all 
the  men  were  young — mere  lads,  indeed.  And  if 
this  were  Luisa,  Fuentes  had  slandered  her  sorely. 
She  seemed  scarcely  eighteen  —  and  we  had  taken 
her,  too,  at  unawares,  when  a  woman  forgets  for  a 
moment  her  endless  vigilant  parry  against  Time. 
She  tossed  her  posy  into  the  half-filled  basket, 
clapped  her  hands,  and  sprang  off  the  bed. 

"Two  new  recruits!     Bravo,  Sebastianillo!" 

With  that,  as  she  stepped  gaily  forward,  her 
eyes  fell  on  Fuentes,  and  she  swayed  and  fell  back 
a  pace,  catching  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

"Don  Eugenio!" 

"Your  servant,  Senorita."  He  bowed  elabo- 
rately and  coldly.  "You  keep  the  lamp  burning, 
and  I  accepted  its  invitation.  Your  cheeks,  too, 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

Senorita,  keep  the  old  colour.  I  congratulate 
you  —  and  you,  Dona  Isabel."  He  bowed  to  the 
old  lady.  "To  live  with  youth  —  that  is  the  way 
to  live  always  young." 

She  had  moved  forward  again,  as  if  to  take  him 
by  both  hands:  but  faltered.  "Yes,  we  have  kept 
the  lamp  burning,  Don  Eugenic,"  she  answered 
with  a  voice  curiously  strained.  "  My  friends  " 
she  turned  to  the  young  men  —  "rise  and  salute 
our  guest  of  guests,  Don  Eugenio  Fuentes!" 

"Fuentes!" 

"What  are  you  telling  us,  Luisa  ?  The  Fuentes  ? 
But  it  is  impossible!" 

"Impossible!  Fuentes  comes  no  more  to  Sala- 
manca." 

Nevertheless  all  had  sprung  to  their  feet,  and 
Fuentes  comprehended  them  all  in  an  ironical  bow. 

"That  is  the  name  by  which  I  call  myself,  Sirs, 
since  leaving  the  University." 

Luisa  made  a  dumb  signal,  and  one  of  the 
youths  handed  him  a  guitar.  He  struck  but  one 
chord  to  assure  himself  of  its  tune  - 

"There's  one  that  lives  in  Salamanca 

All  up  a  dozen  flights  of  stairs; 
There  with  the  sparrows,  night  and  morning, 

Under  the  roof  she  chirps  her  prayers. 
They  say  her  wisdom  comes  from  heaven  — 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

Will  you  not  take  a  guitar,  Senorita,  and  help  me 
with  the  old  song? 

So  near  the  clouds  and  chimneys  meet  — 
I  rather  think  Luisa's  sparrows 

Fetch  it  aloft  there  from  the  street!" 

Above  all  things  women  suspect  and  fear  irony: 
it  is  not  one  of  their  weapons.  Luisa  glanced  at 
Fuentes  doubtfully,  I  could  see,  and  with  some 
pain  in  her  doubt.  But  it  was  the  old  song,  after 
all,  and  he  was  singing  it  de  bon  cceur.  She  caught 
up  a  guitar  and  chimed  in  with  the  second  verse, 
taking  up  the  soprano's  part,  while  he  at  once 
obeyed  and  dropped  from  treble  to  alto  — 

Which  will  you  have?    In  la  Verdura 

Pretty  Luisa  keeps  a  stall: 
Hands  you  a  rose  for  your  peseta, 

Nothing  to  pay  but  a  thorn  — that's  all! 
King  of  her  love,  with  no  Prime  Minister, 

Lord  of  an  attic  blithe  I'd  reign. 
But  ay  de  mil!  from  here  to  Finisterre 

Pretty  Luisa  loves  all  Spain. 

His  eyes,  as  he  sang,  were  fastened  on  young 
Sebastian  Paz,  and  she,  noting  them,  played  the 
verse  to  its  ringing  close,  turned  abruptly,  and  laid 
the  guitar  on  the  bed  between  the  flower-baskets. 

"But  I  think  it  is  business  brings  you  here, 
Don  Eugenio." 

[323] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

He  had  stepped  to  the  open  lattice,  and  with 
an  upward  glance  at  the  lamp,  burning  steadily 
in  the  windless  air,  leaned  on  the  sill  and  looked 
out  over  the  city.  Somewhere  below  by  the 
waterside  a  dull  noise  sounded  —  the  thud  of  a 
falling  beam.  The  French  down  there  were 
working  by  lantern-light,  clearing  away  the 
houses  from  their  fortifications. 

"Yes,  I  come  on  business,  and  from  Lord 
Wellington.  The  good  citizens  in  Salamanca 
have  ceased  to  write." 

"And  small  blame  to  them,"  one  of  the  young 
men  answered. 

"Small  blame  to  them,  I  agree.  And  yet  they 
must  send  news  —  this  time  to  Lord  Wellington, 
who  knows  better  than  to  print  it." 

His  eyes  interrogated  Luisa,  who  raised  hers  at 
length  to  meet  them. 

"That  will  not  be  easy,"  said  she,  with  a  pucker 
of  her  pretty  forehead.  "They  are  scared  and 
afraid  for  their  heads:  nevertheless,  Don  Eugenio 

7  o 

might  bring  back  their  confidence,  if  only  we  can 
bring  him  face  to  face  with  them."  She  seated 
herself  on  the  bed's  edge  and  mused  awhile  with 
her  hands  in  her  lap. 

"You  know  where  to  find  them?"  asked 
Fuentes,  addressing  the  company  in  general. 

[324] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

"Oh,  yes,  Senor —  assuredly  we  know  where 
to  find  them!"  answered  one  or  two. 

"Then  the  whole  thing  is  very  simple.  You 
must  let  me  join  your  choir,  gentlemen." 

"Yes,  yes,  that  is  simple  enough,"  put  in  Luisa 
impatiently:  "the  more  so,  as  our  chorus  is 
popular  not  only  in  the  taverns,  but  at  the  French 
officers'  messes.  But  these  spies  of  ours  are  slow 
and  dull  to  a  degree:  I  think  sometimes  it  takes  a 
quite  special  clumsiness  to  be  a  clerk  of  the  arsenal 
or  to  swindle  the  country  in  the  military  stores. 
We  can  get  you  into  communication  with  them, 
Don  Eugenio:  but  how  are  they  to  pass  their  in- 
formation to  you?  They  are  born  bunglers,  and 
the  French  begin  to  use  their  eyes."  She  pursed 
her  lips  for  a  moment.  "  Is  your  friend  new  to  this 
work?"  she  asked,  suddenly  turning  toward  me 
a  gaze  of  frank  inspection. 

Fuentes  smiled.  "You  would  not  say  so, 
Senorita,  were  I  free  to  tell  you  his  name." 

"As  for  that,"  said  I,  "where  Senor  Don 
Eugenio  entrusts  his  secret  I  may  not  hesitate  to 
entrust  mine.  My  name  is  Manuel  MacNeill, 
Senorita,  and  I  kiss  your  hands  and  am  at  your 
service." 

Luisa  rose  and  dropped  me  a  very  stately 
curtsey.  "  Happy  were  I,  Don  Manuel  MacNeill, 

[325] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

to  welcome  you,  even  if  you  did  not  solve  our 
difficulty.     You  are  clever  at  disguises,   I   have 
been  told.     Well,  I  have  a  disguise  for  you  - 
though  not,  to  be  sure,  a  pleasant  one." 

"  I  take  the  downs  with  the  ups,"  said  I. 

"Well,  then,  Don  Diego  here  is  an  artist.  He 
can  paint  you  a  bunch  of  grapes  so  that  the  birds 
come  to  peck  at  it:  moreover,  he  has  studied  at 
the  hospital.  We  must  find  you  a  suit  of  rags, 
Sir,  and  Don  Diego  shall  paint  you  as  full  of 
sores  as  Lazarus." 

"And  after  that?" 

"  After  that  you  will  go  to  the  porch  of  the  New 
Cathedral,  to  the  shady  side  of  it  —  look  you 
how  I  study  your  comfort  —  facing  on  the  Square 
of  the  Old  College:  and  there  you  shall  collect 
the  alms  of  the  charitable.  Many  things,  I  am 
told,  find  their  way  into  a  beggar's  hat." 

"Senorita,"  said  Fuentes  gravely,  with  a  glance 
up  at  the  lamp,  "it  was  a  good  star  that  led  us 
here  to-night." 

"The  star,  as  you  call  it,  has  not  failed  in  all 
these  years,"  she  answered,  with  a  look  of  timid 
appeal  which  hardened  to  one  of  defiance. 

"Nay,"  answered  he  coldly  and  lightly,  "I 
never  doubted  it  would  —  while  there  was  oil  to 
feed  it." 

[326] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

On  the  morrow,  then,  I  took  up  my  station  by 
the  porch  of  the  Cathedral,  with  a  highly  artistic 
wound  in  my  left  leg,  a  shade  over  my  right  eye, 
and  beside  me  a  crutch  and  a  ragged  cap.  The 
first  day  brought  me  coppers  only:  but  late  on 
the  second  afternoon  a  stout  citizen,  pausing  on 
the  steps  and  catching  his  breath  asthmatically 
before  entering  the  Cathedral,  dropped  a  paper 
pellet  in  with  his  penny.  On  the  third  day  it 
began  to  rain  pellets,  and  I  drank  that  night  to 
the  assured  success  of  our  campaign. 

I  saw  nothing  of  Fuentes.  It  had  been  agreed 
between  us  that  I  should  play  my  part  in  my  own 
fashion,  and  I  played  it  so  thoroughly  as  to  take 
lodgings  in  the  beggars'  quarter,  in  a  thieves*  den 
-  it  was  little  better  —  off  the  Street  of  the  Rosary. 
It  was  enough  for  me  that,  however  Fuentes  went 
about  the  sowing,  the  harvest  kept  pouring  in. 
As  for  the  Street  of  the  Virgins,  I  had  been  brought 
to  it  and  had  quitted  it  in  the  dark,  and  it  is  a 
question  if  by  daylight  I  could  have  found  it 
again.  At  any  rate,  I  did  not  try. 

But  on  the  fourth  day,  at  about  five  in  the 
afternoon,  as  the  day's  heat  began  to  grow  tol- 
erable, I  caught  sight  of  Luisa  herself  picking 
her  way  towards  the  Cathedral  porch  along  the 
pavement  under  the  facade  of  the  University. 
[327] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

Before  entering  the  great  doors  she  paused  on 
the  step  beside  me,  bent  to  drop  a  coin  into  my 
cap,  and  whispered  — 

"When  I  come  out,  follow  me." 

She  passed  on  into  the  Cathedral  and  did  not 
reappear  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  perhaps.  In 
this  time  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that,  whatever 
the  risk  of  my  obeying  her,  she  had  probably 
weighed  it  against  some  risk  more  urgent,  and 
perhaps  brought  the  message  direct  from  Fuentes. 
So  when  she  came  forth,  and  after  pausing  a 
moment  to  readjust  her  mantilla,  tripped  down 
the  steps  and  away  to  the  left  down  the  street 
leading  to  the  Porta  del  Rio,  I  picked  up  my 
crutch,  yawned,  shook  the  coppers  in  my  wallet, 
and  hobbled  after  her  at  a  decent  distance. 

All  the  way  I  kept  my  eyes  open  and  my  ears 
too.  In  the  streets  around  the  Porta  del  Rio  the 
city's  traffic  was  beginning  to  flow  again  after 
the  day's  siesta:  but  I  made  pretty  sure  that  we 
were  not  being  tracked.  Through  half-a-dozen 
streets  she  led  me,  and  so  to  one  which  I  supposed 
to  be  the  Street  of  the  Virgins,  and  to  a  door 
which  I  recognised  for  that  to  which  Fuentes  had 
brought  me  four  nights  ago. 

She  had  already  knocked  and  been  admitted: 
but  the  door  opened  again  as  I  came  abreast  of  it, 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

and  I  stepped  past  the  porter  into  the  passage. 
Luisa  stood  halfway  up  the  first  flight  of  stairs 
under  a  sunny  window  and  beckoned,  and  aloft 
I  climbed  after  her  to  her  attic.  With  her  hand 
on  the  latch  of  her  own  door,  she  turned. 

"You  will  find  your  clothes  within,"  she  said, 
and  opened  the  door  for  me  to  pass.  "  Dress  — 
dress  with  speed  —  and  find  Don  Eugenic.  Your 
work  is  done,  and  you  must  both  be  beyond  the 
bridge  before  sunset." 

"Is  there  treachery,  Senorita  ?"  I  asked. 

"There  is  treachery  of  a  kind,  but  not  of  the 
kind  you  guess.  It  is  important  that  Don  Eugenio 
should  be  beyond  the  bridge  to-night.  Your 
beasts  at  the  Four  Crowns  are  ready  saddled. 
Find  your  friend,  and  help  him  to  go  with  all 
speed." 

"  But  where  shall  I  find  him,  Senorita  ?  I  have 
not  set  eyes  on  him  for  three  or  four  days." 

"Yet  he  has  done  his  work  surely,  has  he  not  ?" 

"Far  better  than  I  could  have  hoped." 

"You  ask  where  he  is  to  be  found  ?  But  where 
else  than  by  the  Archbishop's  College,  near  by 
where  the  French  have  pulled  down  his  own 
College  of  San  Lorenzo,  and  are  destroying  more  ? 
You  men!"  She  broke  out  into  sudden  pas- 
sionate contempt.  "The  past  is  all  you  have 

[329] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

eyes  for  —  the  poor,  wild,  blundering  past.  You 
have  no  eyes  for  the  present,  and  with  the  past 
you  poison  its  living  joy.  We  women  cannot  be 
always  seventeen :  yet  because  we  are  not,  you  kill 
us — you  kill  us,  I  say!"  Then,  while  I  stared  at 
her  in  downright  amaze,  "Go,  dress!"  she  cried, 
thrusting  me  into  the  room.  "In  your  coat  you 
will  find  two  letters.  That  without  address  you 
will  give  to  Don  Eugenio  when  you  find  him :  that 
which  is  marked  with  a  cross  you  will  hand  to 
him  when  you  shall  have  passed  the  bridge  — on 
no  account  before.  And  now  be  quick,  I  be- 
seech you:  for  this  one  room  is  all  my  house." 

Almost  she  thrust  me  within,  and  closed  the 
door  gently  upon  me.  When  I  emerged,  in  my 
right  and  proper  clothes,  it  was  to  find  her  yet 
waiting  there  upon  the  landing. 

"I  thank  you  for  your  speed,  Senor  Don 
Manuel;  for  I,  too,  am  in  haste  to  change  my 
dress:  and  my  dress  will  require  care  to-night, 
since  I  go  to  a  masquerade."  She  gave  me  her 
hand.  "Farewell,  friend!"  she  said. 

I  found  Don  Eugenio  behind  the  College  of 
the  Archbishop,  seated  on  a  mound  and  watch- 
ing the  French  sappers  at  their  work.  I  gave 
him  Luisa's  letter. 

"The  wench,"  said  he  calmly, having  read  it,  "is 

[330]  ' 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

a  born  conspirator.  She  cannot  be  happy  unless 
she  has  a  card  hidden  even  from  her  fellow-plotters. 
Still,  it  is  usually  safe  to  follow  her  advice.  Our 
work  is  pretty  thoroughly  done,  I  fancy  ? " 

I  nodded. 

"We  will  see  to  our  beasts  then." 

"She  tells  me  they  are  ready  saddled." 

"Saints!  She  is  in  a  hurry,  that  girl!  Ah, 
well,  then  let  us  go  and  ask  no  questions." 

We  found  our  mare  and  mule,  paid  our  reckon- 
ing, and  rode  forth  from  Salamanca.  At  the 
bridge-end  we  showed  the  passports,  and  were 
bidden  to  go  in  peace.  As  we  climbed  the  hill 
beyond,  I  handed  Fuentes  Luisa's  second  letter. 

"She  bade  me  deliver  it  here,"  I  explained. 

He  read  it,  turned  in  his  saddle,  and  looked 
back  towards  the  twilit  sky.  "A  likely  tale," 
said  he,  crushing  the  letter  into  his  pocket. 

Scarcely  a  year  later  —  to  be  precise,  on  the 
1 7th  of  June,  1812  —  the  Allied  forces  crossed 
the  fords  above  and  below  Salamanca,  and  in- 
vested the  fortifications  which  still  commanded 
the  bridge.  In  the  suburbs  and  outlying  quarters 
the  inhabitants  lit  up  their  houses  and,  cheering 
and  weeping,  thronged  the  streets  to  press  the 
hands  of  the  deliverers. 

[33'] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

On  the  zyth  the  forts  fell,  and  these  scenes 
were  renewed.  I  was  passing  through  the  Plaza 
Mayor  that  night,  about  eight  o'clock,  when  a 
man  plucked  me  by  the  sleeve,  and,  turning  in 
the  light  of  a  bonfire,  I  confronted  Fuentes.  I 
had  not  seen  him  since  our  return  to  Lisbon:  and 
his  face,  in  the  bonfire's  glare,  seemed  to  me  to 
have  aged  woefully. 

"The  shells  may  have  spared  her  house,"  said 
he.  "Do  you  care  to  go  with  me  and  see  what 
remains  of  it  ?" 

He  linked  his  arm  in  mine.  We  dived  into 
the  dark  streets  together. 

The  Street  of  the  Virgins  had  suffered  from  the 
Allies'  artillery,  and  we  picked  our  way  over 
fallen  chimney-stacks  and  heaps  of  rubble  to 
the  remembered  door.  It  stood  open,  no  porter 
guarding  it:  but  a  lamp  smoked  in  the  stairway, 
and  by  the  light  of  it  we  mounted  together. 

On  the  topmost  landing  all  was  dark,  but  here 
within  the  half-open  door  a  light  shone.  Fuentes 
tapped  on  the  door  and  pressed  it  open.  From 
a  deep  armchair  beside  the  empty  fireplace  a 
woman  rose  to  greet  us.  It  was  the  duenna, 
Dona  Isabel.  Behind  her  in  the  open  window  a 
lamp  shone  within  a  red  shade,  swaying  a  little 
in  the  draught. 

[332] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

"I  give  you  welcome,  Sirs,"  quavered  the  old 
lady  in  a  voice  that  seemed  to  flicker,  too,  in  the 
draught.  "By  the  shouting  I  understood  that 
the  forts  have  fallen,  and  for  some  while  I  have 
been  expecting  you.  ...  It  is  dull  up  here,  and 
a  poor  welcome  for  young  gentlemen  since  my 
darling  died.  But  on  such  a  night  as  this " 

She  gazed  around  her,  resting  both  hands  on 
the  arms  of  her  chair. 

"Luisa!  Where  is  Luisa?"  cried  Fuentes 
sharply. 

"They  come  very  seldom  now,"  pursued  the 
old  woman,  not  hearing  or  not  comprehending. 
"It  is  dull,  you  understand.  You,  Sir,  are  Don 
Eugenio,  are  you  not?"  She  nodded  palsywise 
toward  the  white  bed,  where  a  broken  guitar  lay 
between  two  baskets  of  withered  flowers. 

"I  was  to  tell  you "     She  broke  off  and 

lifted  a  hand  half-way  to  her  brow,  but  let  it  drop. 
"I  was  to  tell  you,  if  you  came,  that  her  letter 
was  true,  and  always  the  lamp  had  been  lit  for 
you  only.  It  burns  still,  you  see.  She  loved 
you,  my  little  one  did;  and  she  was  good  —  always, 
though  she  laughed,  she  was  good." 

Fuentes  stepped  to  the  bed  and  took  the  guitar 
in  his  hands.    Some  blow  had  broken  in  the  sound- 
ing-board, and  one  of  the  strings  had  snapped. 
[333] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

"There  is  no  blood  upon  it,"  went  on  the  old 
woman  in  the  same  tone  that  seemed  pitilessly 
striving  not  to  hurt.  "The  little  one  scarcely 
bled  at  all.  But  Don  Diego  struck  hard,  and 
somehow  the  guitar  was  broken,  yet  it  may  have 
been  with  her  elbow  as  she  fell.  It  was  not 
treachery,  you  understand.  At  first  she  believed 
that  in  his  jealousy  he  meant  to  betray  you,  but 
he  meant  only  to  murder.  And  she,  discovering 
this,  dressed  herself  in  your  clothes  and  took 
your  place  in  the  line  that  night:  I  heard  her 
playing  down  the  stairs:  they  were  all  playing 
'My  love,  she  lives  in  Salamanca*  —  that  was 
the  tune  —  your  own  tune,  Don  Eugenio  —  and 
she,  with  her  mask  on,  singing  bravely,  the  third 
in  the  line.  She  was  short,  you  remember  —  oh, 
perhaps  a  head  and  shoulders  shorter  than  you! 
—  but  Don  Diego,  outside  the  door  in  the  dark- 
ness, could  not  see  well,  or  maybe  he  was  misled 
by  your  guitar.  And,  afterwards,  Don  Sebastian 
ran  him  through.  They  brought  her  upstairs  to 
me  and  laid  her  on  the  bed.  She  was  breathing 
yet,  but  for  a  very  little  while:  and  I  was  to  tell 

you  —  I  was  to  tell  you "     She  broke  off 

again,  seeking  to  remember. 

"Was  it  something  about  the  lamp,  Dona 
Isabel?" 

[334] 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  GUITAR 

"  Yes,  that  was  it  —  but  I  have  told  you  already, 
eh  ?  Only  for  you  she  had  ever  lit  it:  for  years, 
yet  always  and  only  for  you.  ..." 

He  crept  past  me,  the  guitar  beneath  his  arm, 
and  I  followed.  He  went  like  a  blind  man, 
groping  between  the  stair-rail  and  the  wall. 


[335] 


276 


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